Family Business
by Ravenclaw992
Summary: It all comes back to family in the end. A one-shot collection based around the small, special family moments and strong relationships of this show. The main focus is on Sam, Dean, and Cas, but there will be guest appearances along the way. Mostly humorous, and happy to take requests. Updates on Tuesdays and Fridays. Spoilers ahead.
1. In the Air

_**The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other's life. -Richard Bach**_

 _ **I'll never stop dreaming that one day we can be a real family, together, all of us laughing and talking, loving and understanding, not looking to the past, but only to the future. -LaToya Jackson**_

 _ **A/N: Welcome, everyone! So my friend got me hooked on Supernatural recently and I fell almost immediately in love with it. I really wish I had discovered it earlier than Season 11.**_

 _ **In order to pour out some of my passion for it, I've decided to start this one-shot collection. If anyone has read my other writing, I have two one-shot collections for Once Upon a Time in progress and I intend to handle this one the same way. The one-shots will be mostly humorous and focused on family moments. I am more than happy to accept requests from readers. Hopefully this project will be fun to write and fun for everyone to read.**_

 _ **For starters, this is an idea that came to me when listening to my own classic rock playlist one night. Am I the only one that can imagine Dean doing this? Especially after the infamous "Eye of the Tiger" moment?**_

 _ **In the Air**_

 _I can feel it coming in the air tonight-_

Even as Sam Winchester finished sweeping through the most recent dump of a motel room-for the third time that morning-and made his way down the trellis-lined pathway, he could easily hear the familiar, pulsing rhythm of Phil Collins' "In the Air Tonight" pounding from the black 1967 Chevy Impala that belonged to his brother. As he expected, Dean had taken his usual spot behind the wheel, eyes closed more peacefully than Sam had seen lately. He was fully absorbed in the music, and singing along in that pitiful, off-key whine of his. Even so, Sam couldn't help but crack a smile as he loaded the last of their belongings-aka evidence-into the trunk. It was nice to see Dean in such a pleasant mood.

"...but the pain still grows, it's no stranger to you and me-" _Dun-dun, dun-dun, dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-_

Just as Sam slid into the passenger seat, the car vibrated from that famous drum solo and Dean drummed his palms on the steering wheel in time with it.

"Really, dude?" he teased Dean. It was always fun to tease his brother, especially when it came to his love of classic rock music. Mainly because it was so easy to accomplish. Just as he anticipated, Dean's trance shattered, he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, and he gawked at Sam as though he had just broken the painful news that the consumption of pie was illegal.

"What?" he barked. Sam shrugged and turned down the volume, even as the final beats of the song carried on. That made Dean freak out even more. "Oh, come on, Sammy! It's a classic song! You can't _not_ do the drum solo!"

"I can," he objected. Of course, it rubbed Dean the wrong way for even arguing what he assumed was an inarguable point, and he shook his head, as if he truly pitied his little brother for not sharing the same enthusiasm for his music. Technically, it was Dad's music, more proof that Dean had taken after their father in more ways than one.

"You know what? Bite me. You have terrible taste in music, anyway." Dean turned the key in the ignition, the engine roared to life after one uncertain sputter, and they hit the open road. Sam knew he shouldn't take the bait, because Dean often enjoyed teasing his brother just as much, but like one of the cocky demons they hunted, he stepped right into the trap.

"I do _not_ have terrible taste in music. That's subjective, isn't it? You have your opinion, I have mine? To each his own?"

"I know what subjective means! Just because I didn't run off to some fancy-shmancy school. And _no_ , no it's not subjective. It's cold, hard fact." Dean gave him that wild-eyed look, like he was seriously concerned for Sam's state of mind. "I heard Gloria freakin' Estefan coming out of Baby's speakers last time you drove."

Sam's head shot up from the notes he was studying closely in his lap-preparation for their next case a few states over-and this time he was the one resembling a fish, mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

"How did you even hear that? I thought you were asleep!"

"How did you think I wouldn't notice?" Dean shot back. "Believe me, I thought I was having a nightmare. I had "Turn the Beat Around" stuck in my head the entire morning. Seriously? Gloria _freakin'_ Estefan?"

"The dial was stuck. I told you about that before." He was starting to understand why Dean preferred to listen to tapes nonstop rather than fiddle with the radio. Dean smirked.

"Yeah, sure, that's what they all say." And he turned up the music.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Of course, I do not own Phil Collins' "In the Air Tonight." And I am proud to admit that I cannot get through that song without doing the drum solo. (-;**_


	2. Low Battery

_**A/N: Hello, lovely readers! I have no clue where this one-shot idea came from, other than my own random, entertaining speculation about Cas and technology. I hope everyone enjoys it. Also, I would like to thank belle'sdarkangel for the review—it's so nice to hear from you again, dearie! (-;**_

 _ **Low Battery**_

"Son of a bitch," Dean grumbled aloud, glaring down at the cell phone in his hand. There was nothing more frustrating than seeing that sliver of red in the upper right corner, next to the alarmingly low 3%. "It was just getting to the good part, too."

Initially, Sam barely offered a sympathetic glance to his brother over the lid of his laptop, so used to his brother's sudden outbursts of annoyance. Often, he was smart enough not to ask. Now he threw down his sandwich and shook his head in disgust.

"Seriously, Dean? How many times do you have to read porn at the table?"

"You don't know that it's porn. For all you know, I'm catching up on the daily news so that we can find a new case."

"Really? What's the headline?"

"Um..." Dean hadn't thought that far ahead. Luckily, Sam sat on the other side of the table from Dean, and so he could not see what was on his screen without leaning far over. However, Dean made the mistake of not paying attention to the angel seated beside him. From his angle, Cas had a perfectly good view of Dean's phone.

"That woman says "oops," but somehow I doubt her towel fell by accident. Definitely porn," Cas confirmed. Sam shot a new look of disgust toward Dean, for once not proud to be right. Dean was too preoccupied with fixing Cas a dark, betrayed look of his own, the kind of face that said _how-could-you?_

"I thought you and I had a profound bond." Cas shrugged apologetically.

"We do, but every once in a while, it is beneficial to be on Sam's good side."

Sam finally smirked behind his laptop.

"Point is," Dean continued, "my phone is _dying_." Once more, Sam showed little sympathy for Dean's plight. Only Cas' blue eyes displayed any sort of concern.

"Allow me to save it." He reached out to take Dean's phone without waiting for his agreement or objection.

"No, wait, Cas, I don't think that's how it works-"

Dean scrambled to retrieve his phone, but the angel held it out of reach. Cas' eyes blazed with holy blue light, a golden aura glowed around his body, the shadow of his black wings unfurled, the force of them knocking Dean straight off his chair. It was Cas' angel mojo at work, channeling into Dean's phone.

All he did was press one finger to the phone's screen, like he did when he healed someone...

…and there was a sharp crackle of electricity and spiral of smoke as Dean's phone exploded. The shattered pieces of glass flew in all directions. Sam and Dean ducked their heads and covered their eyes as the debris bounced around them, skipping over the table like pebbles on water.

When Cas returned to normal-as normal as any angel on earth could be-he stared helplessly at the rubble in his palm. Bowing his head in shame, he dropped the pieces in front of Dean, who only gaped in open-mouthed horror while Sam giggled uncontrollably behind his laptop.

"I am sorry for your loss," Cas said.

...

 _ **A/N: Out of curiosity, how do you prefer to spell Cas' name? I know in the show, it's officially Cass, but everyone else in this fandom (including Misha Collins) usually spells it Cas. I've grown used to the latter, so I hope it doesn't bother anyone.**_


	3. First Steps

_**A/N: Hello, everyone! This one-shot is based on a lovely family moment between Sam and Dean, back when they were little boys. Hopefully I will continue to write more one-shots like this in the future. I also want to take a moment to thank belle'sdarkangel, deadone1013, and Pawn'sVictory for their kind reviews and support. It certainly gives me the encouragement to keep writing. Also, I'm glad to know I'm not the only one who calls him Cas. (-;**_

 _ **Enjoy the one-shot!**_

 _ **First Steps**_

"Come on, Sam! Over here! Come to Daddy!"

John Winchester knelt down on the hard, wooden floor in the middle of Bobby's study, stretching his arms out to his youngest son. Dean curled up on the window seat and practiced his numbers, though he watched the pair from the corner of his eye. It was getting boring to watch. No matter how much his dad called, commanded, or even wiggled his fingers, Sam paid little attention. All he did was crawl around, fall on his butt, and suck his thumb. The more he ignored his dad, the more frustrated his dad got.

And as usual after the recent death of their mother, John Winchester gave up too soon.

"Never mind. Guess today's not the day," he sighed and headed into the kitchen, setting his sights on the fridge for another beer.

"Give it time, John. He'll do it when he's ready and not a minute before. And when he does, you'll never keep up with him," Bobby reassured him, but John's only answer was a half-hearted grunt followed by the abrupt hiss of air as he cracked open his beer and chugged it down.

Dean knew that Uncle Bobby didn't have any kids of his own, though he was kind enough to let them stay with him until they found a new place. He didn't seem the least bit bored to watch Sam crawl around, fall down, and suck his thumb. In fact, he got this misty look in his eye, like he wouldn't wish to be anywhere else in the world.

At the moment, Bobby joined his dad in the kitchen. While John helped himself to Bobby's supply of beer, Bobby himself never drank anything stronger than coffee while the boys were around. Snippets of their conversation wafted into the room and Dean didn't even have to listen too hard to overhear. He caught the words "Mary," "fire," "Sam," and…"demon?" No, that last one must have been "Dean" and he heard it wrong.

That was how he knew they were talking about the night Mom died. Again. It was an old, sore subject.

If only Sam started walking. It would be something good for once. Something to make his father smile again, even for a moment.

Dean set aside his homework on the window seat and knelt on the ground with Sam, the way his dad did before. Sam stared back at him wondrously over his thumb.

"Hey there, Sammy. Can you walk?" Dean asked, his voice rising unnaturally high when he addressed his baby brother. Of course, Sam didn't respond with anything more than sucking noises. "I know you can do it, Sammy. I believe in you. Come on."

At first he helped Sam stand up and let go, but Sam only balanced for a second before he fell back down. He changed tactics and held out his arms like he had seen his dad do a thousand times before. Sammy sat there, sucking away, and absorbing everything in his big, wide world. His eyes always found their way back to Dean.

Dean let his arms drop back to his sides. Maybe Uncle Bobby was right—he would only do it when he felt ready.

"De!" Sammy shrieked. It was the only word he knew. Even if it wasn't really a word, Dean noticed how Sam always looked over at him when he said it, as if trying his best to call out to his big brother. Just as Dean was about to stand up and return to his homework, Sam began to crawl toward him, fast, like he was on a mission. Halfway there, Sam changed his mind and rose on two wobbly legs. "De! De!"

"That's it, Sammy! Come here!" Dean opened his arms again. For a second, as Sam teetered on his chubby legs, testing them out, he was sure that Sam would fall back down. Then Sam stumbled toward him, slowly at first, then faster and faster as he began to trust his legs. It was only three steps to reach Dean, but it might as well have been a mile for little Sam. "Good job, Sammy! You're walking! _Dad_ , _Uncle Bobby!_ Sam's _walking_!"

Their footsteps rushed from the kitchen. They got there just in time to see Sam tumble into Dean's waiting arms. He held his baby brother close and sent the two adults a proud smile over his shoulder.

"Well, I'll be damned," John Winchester whispered under his breath, rubbing a hand over his bearded jaw.

"What'd I tell ya?" Bobby said, elbowing John in the gut. For the first time since their mother died, Dean was glad to see his dad grinning as he looked upon his boys. "You quit too soon, John. Looks like today was the day, after all."

"De! De!" Sam repeated in Dean's ear before finding his thumb again.

"It's okay, Sammy. I'm here, and I'm proud of you."

….


	4. Tattoo

**_A/N: Hello, readers! Recently, deadone1013 requested a one-shot that featured a happy moment for Cas. I hope you enjoy this one. I also want to thank_** ** _Emma Winchester 424 and belle'sdarkangel for leaving_** ** _kind reviews and encouraging me to keep writing._**

 _ **Tattoo**_

If someone told Dean ten years ago that he would end up having an angel as his best friend, the old him would have laughed like it was a good joke, scoff at the existence of all things holy, and toss back another drink. It wasn't like he was suddenly attending Sunday mass or getting down on his knees every night to pray to some higher power; even now, it was sometimes peculiar to be reminded of everything he once doubted.

The simple truth was that he could no longer imagine a world without Castiel, just as he could not live in a world without his brother Sam. He had come to accept Cas as a second brother—someone who was there to support him, fight alongside him, care whether he lived or died, and even save him and Sam more times than he could count. Sometimes they argued, but that was what family did. Despite the imperfections, they had each other's backs when it mattered most. It was them against the world and, more importantly, it gave Dean a good reason to keep fighting day in and out.

Nothing reminded Dean more of having a little brother than the times Cas followed his example or tried his best to make him proud. It was what Sam did, too—copied Dean when he was a kid, aiming to be like him in every way, wearing a goofy grin before Dean clapped him on the shoulder and said "good job, Sammy."

It was what Cas was doing now.

"Sam, Dean," Cas practically sang as he hurried down the stairs, into the heart of the bunker.

The Winchesters glanced up in unison from where they lounged in the library. Sam was surrounded by a series of books, papers, and his laptop while Dean zeroed in on a freshly-prepared hamburger from their own kitchen. All of it was momentarily forgotten and they exchanged questioning looks. Mostly, whenever Cas sought them out so suddenly, it was to deliver terrible news, but this time he might as well have tap-danced down the stairs. Possibly the strangest part was the _smile_.

"You'll never guess what I have done."

The three of them fell into silence and Cas' blue eyes flew from one brother to the other. Only then did it occur to Dean that the angel actually expected them to guess.

"Did you do something with your hair?" he remarked. Cas never struck him as the type to embrace change. Hell, he'd been wearing the same damn trench coat suit combo since the day they met. His hair was no exception—always well-groomed, black and sleek as demons' eyes, every last hair precise. The one time Dean dared to ruffle Cas' hair, the angel wasn't happy until every strand was back in place.

Cas was obviously the drama queen of their brotherly trio.

"You made it back into Heaven?" Sam guessed.

Thanks to the angel Metatron—or Meta-Dick, as Dean preferred to call him—all of the angels had been cast out of Heaven. Cas had become human when he fell, since Metatron stole his grace to make the spell work. Even if he had some of his grace back, his full potential would not return until he was accepted back into Heaven.

"Unfortunately, no," Cas admitted, some of his cheeriness dampened. "If I had my full power back, you'd know." Dean had no doubt about that. They wouldn't be able to open their eyes for a week straight if Cas flaunted his natural angelic holiness. "Give up?"

The two brothers shrugged and Dean gestured for Cas to get on with it. Cas slid off his trench coat and draped it gingerly over the back of a chair. Then he removed his tie, followed by his suit jacket. By this time, Dean's eyes widened in disbelief and Sam's mouth fell open.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Cas! What the _hell_ are you doing?" Dean exclaimed, averting his eyes to the ceiling. _Oh, hell,_ he thought, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. _He hasn't been watching the pizza man again, has he? Is he practicing?_

Just in case, Dean closed his eyes.

"Oh, wow," Sam said in that surprised, hesitant way that made Dean not want to open his eyes anytime soon. His imagination supplied enough of a visual. He felt Sam's elbow poke his ribs. "It's okay, Dean. You can look." _I don't think I want to risk it._

Eventually, his curiosity got the better of him and he opened one eye. Then he opened both eyes.

Much to his relief, Cas was still more or less fully-clothed; he had unbuttoned his shirt and tugged it away from his neck to reveal something neither brother would have seen otherwise. At the same time, the sight was familiar. A black anti-possession tattoo branded Cas' skin, on his chest above his heart. The skin around it was red and raw, a sign that it was fresh. Both Sam and Dean had a tattoo just like it to ward off demons.

"It's just like yours," Cas echoed Dean's thoughts. His lips were stretched wide with that goofy grin, awaiting their approval. Dean whistled.

"Aw, look at him, Sam. He's so proud," Dean said, patting Cas on the head and ruffling his hair. Sam nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, I know. He's like the first angel to get inked up. What brought this on?" he inquired. Cas released his collar, letting the fabric of his shirt conceal the tattoo again.

"Losing my grace has taught me many things about being human. For one thing, humans are so fragile and susceptible to countless dangers in the world. Truly, you two deserve more credit. I learned how to sleep—and when I slept, I had this recurring nightmare of Crowley possessing my body. My lips were moving, but a British accent came out. It was disturbing. So I figured I should invest in this tattoo, in case I ever become human again."

"Good call," the brothers said together.

"I might even get a third one—" Cas hinted. Dean held up his hand.

"Easy, tiger. Let's not get too crazy."

….


	5. Family Picture

_**A/N: Hello, everyone! Just a warning: this may be a bit of a sad one-shot, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless. I really like writing for young Sam and big brother Dean, so I might do a few more one-shots like this soon. I want to thank everyone for reading and for the encouragement to keep writing. Hopefully, writing these one-shots will also tide me over until the show returns on March 23**_ _ **rd**_ _ **.**_

 _ **Family Picture**_

Being a Winchester, Dean had learned early on that life was not going to be easy. By the time he was four years old, their mother had been killed by a real demon. Their father was now a full-time hunter obsessed with tracking down that same demon that killed her for revenge. That self-appointed job took them cross-country; he couldn't even remember the last time they stayed in one place long enough to call it home.

By the time he was nine years old, his outlook on the future wasn't exactly bright. Unlike other children, he lived his days in almost constant paranoia, with the fear of strange things that went bump in the night, and his father breathing down his neck with each new command.

The most familiar one played in his head like a broken record: _Take care of Sammy, take care of Sammy, take care of Sammy—_

And he was trying his best to keep life simple for Sam, for as long as possible. Some mornings, he gave his brother the last bowl of Lucky Charms, even when he hadn't enjoyed any of it yet (and boy, did he hate it when Sam only ate the marshmallow hearts, stars, and horseshoes). He sang "Hey, Jude" to Sam to help him fall asleep, the way their mother used to do for Dean. He never told Sam about the things that went bump in the night.

For all his effort, Sam smiled much easier than Dean ever did. For that, it was worth it.

That's why, when Sam stomped in the door after school one day with his head tucked down, Dean immediately knew something was wrong.

Even when he said hello to his little brother, Sam barely looked him in the eye, instead scurrying off to their room to be alone. Their father followed behind his youngest son, closing the door sharply behind him and dropping the Impala's keys into his shirt pocket. He was never the type to leave the keys lying around on the table carelessly; he wanted to be able to find them at a moment's notice. According to him, the question "where are the keys?" could be the difference between life and death.

The only answer Dean got when he met his father's eyes was a forlorn shrug.

"Don't look at me, boy. He wouldn't say one word to _me_ about it," his father said in a gruff, exhausted voice. Without another word, or, as Dean often expected, a command, he retired to his own room, probably to catch up on his sleep before he made any more progress on the case he was currently working. Dean knew next to nothing about it. His father only told him the basics: where he was going, when he might be back, and what they should do if he didn't come back.

Dean was left to worry about Sam on his own and he stared at the door to their bedroom, wondering if he had any chance of making the kid spill the beans. Better chance than Dad had. There were some things Sam would only confess to his older brother and not in front of his father, like the fact that he was afraid there was a monster under his bed. Thankfully, it was the typical imagination of a child and not the real thing.

He wouldn't be a very good brother if he didn't try to fix it. Besides, the curiosity was killing him.

Padding over to the bedroom door, which bore their names in black stick-on letters, he knocked lightly on it.

"Sam?" No answer. Impatiently, he pushed the door open. It didn't matter that he didn't wait for an invitation because Sam looked like he had no intention of moving.

Their bedroom wasn't big to begin with. It was only a little bigger than the size of a standard motel bathroom, but it was looked even smaller with the two beds jammed inside it. Beneath the square window was one of those cushioned window seats riddled with holes the size of bullets. This was where Sam huddled, his legs tucked up to his chin and his cloudy eyes glued to the glass.

Dean could tell that Sam wasn't really seeing anything beyond the glass, too lost in his own thoughts. He had been afraid to find Sam angry, since Sam was capable of holding a fierce grudge, but it wasn't anger that darkened his brother's eyes. Only pain and sadness. Somehow, that was even worse.

"Sammy? You okay?" A tiny nod, barely visible with Sam's head balanced on his knees. Dean moved further into the room, pausing at the end of his perfectly-made bed to give Sam enough space. Dad made sure they fixed everything just right, including the beds, just in case they had to leave quickly. The man was afraid to leave any trace of them behind, even the frail indent of a body in the rumpled sheets or a hair on the pillows.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sam shook his head this time. The silence was grating on Dean's nerves. He was determined to get Sam to talk. Holding it in wouldn't do the kid any favors.

Suddenly, Dean got an idea to make Sam break.

With the promise that he would be right back, he made a beeline to the kitchen. Expertly, he scaled the countertop and flung open the cupboards. He smiled when he spotted the can of Campbell's Alphabet soup sitting there, way in the back. It was the last one, but it was worth it for Sam. Just one more thing he had to sacrifice, along with the Lucky Charms.

He dumped the contents into a bowl and heated it up in the microwave. The familiar scent of the hot soup tormented Dean's nose. It was for _Sam_ , not for him, but then he was becoming a bit gluttonous, never really knowing where the next good meal would come from. Anything he had, he shared with Sam.

When the microwave buzzed, Dean pulled out the bowl of soup, burning his fingers in the process. With a fork, he pushed the noodles around, the letters forming a message. Then he waved his hand to cool off the soup and carried it into the bedroom.

Sam hadn't moved a muscle in the time that he was gone, but he hadn't really expected him to. Dean had to wonder if the kid would even blink if he clapped his hands together in his face, like he sometimes did when they had a staring contest.

"Look, Sammy, I brought you an after-school snack. Your favorite: alphabet soup." Carefully, because the bowl was full to the brim with hot soup, he set it down on the window seat, tempting Sam's eyes away from the glass. The first sign of a smile tugged the corners of his lips as he read the message: _Please Sam._

When Sam took the bowl into his lap and scooped a spoonful into his mouth, Dean took that as a sign that everything would be alright. He claimed the empty space on the window seat beside Sam, his butt warm from where the bowl of soup had been.

"So? Are you gonna tell me what's going on or not?" Dean insisted, shoving Sam's shoulder lightly.

Sam lowered the spoon into the bowl again, but did not bring it back to his mouth. At first Dean was afraid that he had pushed Sam too hard and that he would not tell him anything at all. Then Sam reached down into his backpack, which he had dropped carelessly on the floor, and pulled out a folded piece of white construction paper. He looked almost ashamed as he held it against his chest, his cheeks bright pink. From where he was sitting, Dean couldn't see what was on that piece of paper.

"Was it a bad grade?" Dean couldn't imagine how a kid so young could get a bad grade. Besides, Sam always tried hard to be the best in everything he did.

Even he had done alright up to that point, but he wasn't a very good student, either. Not when there were more important things to worry about in the world, like his little brother and whether Dad would make it home from the latest hunting trip in one piece. Even though he was still young, Dean had the feeling he would end up following in his father's footsteps rather than going to college.

In any case, that was a long way away, practically a lifetime, and the only thing that mattered to Dean at the moment was Sam.

"Today, Mrs. Fisher-" Dean snorted at the name of Sam's teacher. She could have been Carrie Fisher's great-great-grandmother, ten times as old and nowhere near as hot. Sam ignored him. "-told us to draw a family picture."

At that point, Sam passed the white paper into Dean's eager hands and turned it over. It looked like a fairly regular family picture to Dean-stick figures with spaghetti-hair and goofy grins in big, blocky clothes. There was a sun in the top left corner, hanging over a crooked, one-dimensional house.

The fact that it was Sam's drawing prevented Dean from dismissing it immediately. The longer he studied it, though, the more he sensed something wrong about it. Not entirely _wrong_ , exactly, but it was...sad.

For one thing, there was an obvious outline of a house, but no other details about it-no windows, no doors, no curtains or chimney. He remembered with a heavy heart how they always moved from one place to another, from house to motel, according to the demands of Dad's hunting job. He never knew what their new "home" would look like and, after a while, Dean stopped memorizing each new place. Maybe Sam felt the same way, so he never bothered to draw a real home. It wasn't like he had any memory of their home in Lawrence, Kansas, being just six months old when Mom died.

The other thing that bothered Dean about the picture was the fact that there were only two stick figures standing inside the house. They were dressed the same way in an oversized shirt and pants, but one was taller than the other. Dean had to assume it was him and Sam. They looked happy together with Joker smiles on their flat faces and holding hands. Or at least two circles where their hands should be.

On the other side of the picture, far away from the house with the two stick-boys, was the figure of a man with a thick beard and a long black line stretching from his hand. Dean could only imagine that it was a gun. Dad. At the least, Sam could explain to his teacher that his father was a hunter, though their definition of hunting was different from normal people.

That was why Dad was drawn so far away from them-he always left to do some job, meaning that Dean would be the one to take care of Sam.

Looking at that picture, Dean felt a burning ache in his heart. He began to feel angry toward his father for never being home, but also for the demon that ruined their lives in the first place. Thanks to that night on November 2, 1983, they would never lead normal lives. That much was clear to Dean, even as he studied Sam's family picture.

The edges of the paper began to crinkle in his fingers.

"It's..." Dean's voice trailed off. What was he supposed to be say? It was nice? It was beautiful? It was the saddest family picture he had ever seen, but he wasn't going to come right out and say that in front of Sam. He didn't want to be the reason his brother burst into tears.

"It's almost Mother's Day," Sam said, none-too-joyfully. That was when Dean noticed that something else was missing from the picture. "Mrs. Fisher-" _snort_ "-asked why I didn't draw my mom."

"What did you tell her?"

Even now, Dean got flashes of memory from the night Mom died. The bitter smell of smoke and flames, Sam's baby weight in his arms, and Dad's urgent commands shouted in his ear. _Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back! Now, Dean, go!_ The terrible reminder that only three Winchesters made it out of that house alive.

"I told her that she was an angel. She asked why I didn't draw her as an angel, and I...I didn't know what she looked like. 'Cause I never met her."

The inevitable happened: Sam started to cry, his wide hazel eyes welling up with tears. The bowl of soup crashed to the floor, the sauce staining the carpet red like blood. Dean found himself cradling his little brother and rubbing his back to soothe his frantic breaths. Poor kid. He was too young to be faced with so much unhappiness. The best thing Dean could do for him was shoulder some of that pain.

"I'm here, Sammy. Take a breath..." Dean cooed softly to his brother. It was better for him to let it out than keep it bottled up until he exploded, like Dean often did. He didn't bother telling him that old lie that everything was okay, because he knew that it wasn't. Thanks to that demon, Sam would never know his mother, he might never know true safety or happiness, and Dad and Dean were all he had in the world.

With a little singing of "Hey, Jude" on Dean's part, he eventually got Sam to stop crying on his shoulder. The kid sat back on the window seat, sniffled, and eyed the spilled soup in shame.

"Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it," Dean assured him. Sam nodded gratefully and wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving a moist trail.

"Dean? What was she like?" Sam wondered.

Dean knew this question would come up one day, but it didn't make it any easier to answer. Even though he still remembered Mom before she died, having known her until he was four, whenever he thought about her lately, the first thing that came to mind was the fire. That was his problem to deal with.

He refused to tell Sam the bad stuff that would give him more nightmares. So he told him all the good stuff instead.

"She was the best mother in the world, and she loved you more than anything. Her hair was gold and curly, like an angel's. I remember the kitchen forever smelled like pie because she used to bake so much. She sang "Hey, Jude" instead of a lullaby. She used to say that angels were watching over us."

"Is Mom an angel?"

"I don't know," Dean answered honestly. "I hope so. Then it means she's watching over us, too."

Sam turned his attention back to the window and to the blue sky beyond it. This time, as he bent to clean up the soup from the floor, Dean caught a glimpse of a smile on his brother's lips. He only wished he could share half of that smile now, as he continued to smell the faint memory of smoke and hear the echo of his father's commands.

 _Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back! Now, Dean, go!_

That was something else he never told Sam: lately, he wasn't sure if there were such things as angels or even God, but he would let Sam believe what he wanted to believe. He couldn't understand how someone as good as their mother could be ripped away from them so suddenly while all the other monsters went bump in the night.

...


	6. Pie Day

_**A/N: Hello, readers! So I've made a decision regarding this one-shot collection: there will be a new update every Friday from here on out. This one is in celebration of a special event, which I'm sure Dean Winchester would love. Enjoy (with a slice of pie)!**_

 _ **Pie Day**_

"Hey, Sam, Cas! _Guess_ what _day_ it _is_!" Dean whooped, reminding Sam too much of that annoying camel from that one Geico commercial. An hour ago, his brother had left for a much-needed beer and grocery run. Now Dean hurried down the bunker's spiraling stairs, toting several white plastic bags. Sam and Cas shared puzzled looks.

"Tuesday?" Cas answered in an obvious tone, wearing his trademark expression of perplexity. For a moment, Sam panicked, his pulse racing a little faster. Ever since that one time when the Trickster deciding to prove himself the ultimate dick by making every day Tuesday while killing Dean on an endless loop, he _hated_ Tuesdays.

Dean lowered the bags, his grin slipping.

"No," he barked.

"Yes, Dean. It _is_ Tuesday," Cas insisted.

"Okay, fine, it's Tuesday, but do you know what _else_?"

"Hump day?" Sam suggested with a smirk, still imagining that camel in place of his brother. Dean's green eyes lit up.

"There's a day dedicated to humping?" Dean sounded like he won the jackpot, probably fantasizing about breaking his record of one-night stands in one night. Sam bit his tongue while Cas reverted to stiff discomfort. It took a snap of Sam's fingers to bring Dean out of his fantasies. "Well, it may be Tuesday, it may even be hump day, but it also happens to be… _Pie_ _Day_!"

Dean dropped the white bags on the table and began unloading the contents: a buffet of pies. White crème pie, chocolate crème pie, coconut pie, pecan pie, apple pie, blueberry pie, pumpkin pie, banana crème pie, and every other flavor of pie that Sam could imagine. It must have cost a good portion of their poker and pool winnings from this week. Dean was like a little kid in Disney World, grinning from ear to ear as he feasted his hungry eyes on the wide assortment of pies, wondering which one to choose first.

"Dean, I do believe you are taking your devotion to pie to a whole new level," Cas remarked, disregarding the pies that had been placed on the table in front of him. As an angel, he didn't have the same taste for food as Sam and Dean did. Yet he still had his preferences from time to time. "Would either of you object if I invented Pizza Day?"

"He didn't invent Pie Day," Sam told Cas, though that didn't necessarily answer his question. While Cas was left to ponder the possibility of Pizza Day, Sam offered his brother a look of pity. "Dean, you do realize that it's a play on words? It doesn't actually honor the invention of pie or the consumption of it. It's pi, as in 3.14 because it's March 14th—"

"Blah, blah, blah, _pie_!" Dean whipped off the lid of one of the nearest pies and greedily scooped some into his mouth. He tilted his head back and moaned in bliss. Cradling the pie in his lap, he kicked up his feet on the table, right on top of Sam's laptop.

"Cheese, pepperoni, pineapple, hamburger…oven-brick and frozen would obviously be acceptable choices…though I fail to see the difference between frozen and cardboard…" Cas mused, mostly to himself.

"Dude, it's not even eleven in the morning," Sam argued as he wedged his laptop from underneath Dean's feet, "and you're already stuffing your face with pie."

"You know what they say, Sam. It's five o'clock somewhere." And Dean continued to shamelessly shovel pie into his mouth, even lapping up the extra cream from his lip.

"Of course, one would have to account for all the extra pizza men delivering those pizzas…and who would deliver their pizzas? Pizza men delivering pizza to other pizza men…" Cas rambled on. Sam sighed.

"So that's what you're going to do all day? Eat your weight in pie?"

"Damn right." Sam glanced over at Cas to see if he approved of this, but the angel only shrugged carelessly.

"Sam, you seem surprised to witness your brother behaving like the natural glutton that he is," he noted. Normally Dean might have acted offended by such a comment, but Sam knew he was already lost in his own little world. His eyes were peacefully closed as he all but made love to his pie.

"I do know one thing," Sam said, slightly amused, "and that's nature running its course. I wouldn't eat too fast, Dean, or that pie won't feel so good later on." The only response he got from his brother was the silent gesture of a talking hand. Suddenly, he sat up straight in his chair and gazed around at them with the growing excitement of a new idea.

"Who wants to have a pie-eating contest?" Before Sam or Cas could accept or decline, Dean smashed his face down into a chocolate crème pie.

"Perhaps _I_ should volunteer as a pizza man," Cas suggested. "I can transport faster than a human and I _have_ done the research…."

…..

By the end of the day, Sam could not get into the bathroom if his life depended on it. Despite the impressive size of the bunker, there was only one bathroom located down the hall from their bedrooms, and for the past hour, it was occupied by Dean.

"Dean. _Dean_! Are you alive in there or what?" Sam shouted, pounding on the door. He pressed his ear against it to listen.

"Uhhnnn….kill me now…." Dean's moans of agony filtered through the bathroom door. Even with his abnormal height, Sam realized that Dean's voice was much lower to the ground than usual. The only humping he was doing tonight was with the toilet.

No matter how Sam knocked on the door or tested the knob, there was no convincing Dean to leave the bathroom. Eventually, when push came to shove, Sam had to wander outside to do his business. He was grateful it was only a leak.

When he returned, he discovered that the bathroom was finally free. If only his bladder had been patient for two more minutes. Dean had wandered the short distance from the bathroom to his bedroom down the hall. Sam poked his head in and found him lying face-down on the bed, still moaning into the pillow. His face was chalk-white from the nausea, his stomach swollen from too much pie.

"You don't look so hot," Sam observed, minus the sympathy. "Hey, I tried to warn you not to eat too much pie too fast, and all you said was—"

"Screw you, Sam," Dean mumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow and his grinding teeth. That was certainly close enough to Dean's choice of words at the time. Sam decided to do what any little brother would do—he brought Dean more pie. Payback for all the times Dean had antagonized him while he was hungover, sick, or ate the wrong thing.

"Look, Dean. It's your favorite mistress. _Pie_ ," Sam sang. He bent over Dean's bed and thrust the pie beneath his nose. Dean cracked one eye open, got a good look at it, and clamped his hand over his mouth. He rolled over to groan some more. That one sounded like it came all the way from his toes. It was the first and only time Sam had seen his brother turn down pie.

"Ugh, take it away. I'm sick just looking at it," Dean pleaded, rubbing his stomach in slow circles to ward off the nausea. Sam moved to the other side of the bed and waved the pie in Dean's face again.

"Are you sure you don't want one more slice of this pie? The Dean Winchester I know would never refuse pie." For all hell, Sam never heard the end of it when he forgot the pie. Even worse if he brought back cake instead.

"He does if he's oozing pie through his pores," Dean argued, batting the pie away with his hand. Some of the whipped cream covered his fingers. Old habits die hard; instinctively, Dean licked the cream off his fingers and then cursed as a new wave of nausea swept over him. "Ugghh…I'm so weak…."

"Maybe this will help. Thick, creamy, gooey, chocolatey—" Dean covered his mouth again, probably to keep the one hundred pies he already consumed from coming back up.

"I hate you so much right now." Sam chuckled.

"I know you do." He decided it was better not to let the pie go to waste and dug into it himself with a plastic spork. He prided himself with being more of a healthy eater than Dean, but he had to admit it was a delicious pie. "Happy Pie Day, Dean."

"Ugghhh…"

"And don't forget: tomorrow is going to be our first annual Pizza Day, thanks to Cas. Get ready to eat your weight in slices of hot, cheesy, greasy—"

Anything else Sam might have said was cut off as Dean sprinted for the bathroom again.

….

 _ **I hope everyone has a better Pi Day than Dean did. I'll have to remember to get myself a slice of pie on March 14**_ _ **th**_ _ **. (-; And I don't know about you, but I wouldn't mind it if Cas delivered my pizza.**_


	7. April Fools

_**A/N: Hey there, SPN family! Just one more week until the show returns. I have something special planned for the next three weeks for these one-shots as April 1**_ _ **st**_ _ **draws near: a series of one-shots dedicated to April Fools' Day. One for Cas, one for Dean, and one for Sam.**_

 _ **This one is inspired by a story I heard from Jensen, Jared, and Misha in multiple panels (I highly recommend the videos on YouTube—they're hilarious). For those that don't know the story, Jared and Jensen smashed a pie in Misha's face on set. Twice. The video of Misha getting two pies in the face is also up on YouTube if you're curious. Well, it's almost April Fools' Day and our favorite brothers have something in store for Cas…**_

 _ **Enjoy!**_

 _ **April Fools**_

"This is it, Sammy," Dean warned, keeping his voice hushed. "This is the big one."

"I know, Dean," Sam droned, as if he had heard it several times before. If Dean noticed, he ignored it. He was on a roll.

"We may only get one shot at this. I'll go first, and if I fail, you have to promise me you'll take the shot."

"I swear." Dean clapped his hand on Sam's shoulder, mentally preparing for what they were about to do. He sucked in a deep breath. In, out.

"Okay. Load up." They both armed themselves with plenty of ammo. Better to have too much than too little when the time came. There was no turning back now and the two brothers weren't going down without a fight. They took their positions. "Ready? Three, two, one. _Cas!_ " Dean called out, throwing his head back to shout at the ceiling and the Heaven that supposedly existed beyond it.

In a heartbeat, he heard the telltale rustle of wings. Suddenly Castiel was there, guarded blue eyes scanning the area for danger. When he found no immediate threat, his attention fixated on Dean, and he visibly released some of the tension in his shoulders.

"Hello, Dean," he greeted in his deep, monotone manner. Since Cas was never the touchy-huggy type, the only recognizable sign of fondness that he showed was a swift, subtle upturn of the lips. Anyone other than Dean might have missed it. Besides, Castiel was standing way too close, a mere inch apart from Dean's face.

"Cas? Space?" He gestured for the angel to scoot back. Castiel took exactly one step.

"Better?" Not really.

"Yeah." Then Cas noticed the white crème pie in Dean's hand.

"Obviously you didn't call me to demand pie…again. Do you wish to share it?"

"You could say that." He took the shot.

Without further ado, he shoved the pie in Castiel's face. He wiggled it around to make sure most of it stuck on there. It was a waste of a delicious pie, but the result was worth it. The tin cover fell from Castiel's face, now painted with frothy white whipped cream and clumps of pie crust. Two blue eyes blazed beneath the white mask.

"What the hell, Dean-?" Every time he spoke, specks of cream blew into the air. Now there was true passion in Cas' voice, though it was by no means pleasant.

Unfortunately for Cas, the rest of his outburst was cut off as Sam snuck up behind him. A second pie hovered below Cas' chin and then Sam pushed the back of his head, forcing his face straight down into the pie. Winchesters 2, Castiel 0. The brothers high-fived. Their ability to form words was compromised by their laughter.

Cas wiped off the white cream from his face. Some of the stray drops and crumbs splattered Sam and Dean. Only the latter was compelled to lap it up from his lip. One deadly look from the angel warned them that he was not pleased.

"What have I done to deserve this?" Cas inquired. Dean and Sam exchanged amused looks and shrugged.

"Nothing."

"It's April Fools' Day," Sam added matter-of-factly. Even under the mask of pie, it was easy to read Cas' blank expression.

"It's a day of foolishness and fun. Mostly, it's a day where people get to act like children playing cruel pranks on each other without having to say I'msorry," Dean explained. He gestured to Cas' new look to prove his point. Sam was courteous enough to hand Cas a fresh Kleenex to help him clean the pie off his face. Easier said than done; long white streaks scarred his cheeks and forehead.

"You mean to tell me that humans dedicate an entire day to humiliating one another? For _fun_?"

"Yeah," the two brothers agreed in unison. It took Cas another minute to finish scrubbing his face clean. A few crumbs and whipped cream clung to his temples and eyebrows. He flung down the wadded tissue and deliberately stepped forward to glare into their eyes.

"Then there is only one thing left that needs to be said."

"Humans are idiots?" Dean guessed.

"Grow up?"

"Game on," Cas declared. In the blink of an eye and the flap of his wings, he was gone. Dean hadn't liked the sound of that, especially knowing that Cas had a habit of taking things too literally. Glancing over at Sam, he found that his brother looked as anxious as he felt.

"You're not…?" Sam wondered aloud.

"Worried?" Dean forced a laugh. "Nah! Of course not! Come on, Sam, what's the worst that little nerd-angel could do to us? Why? Are you…worried?" Sam's lips formed into a thin, tight line and he gulped nervously.

"A little bit."

"Yeah, me too," Dean admitted. He checked the time on his phone. Only twelve more hours of April Fools' Day to go.

…

 _ **A/N: Next time, it'll be Dean's turn. Just wait until you see what I have in store for the boys. (-; I also want to take a minute to thank deadone1013 for the kind review: I hope you enjoyed your Pie Day, too. Just imagine what would happen to Dean on National Pie Day (which happens to be one day before his birthday next year). Thank you for the support and encouragement to keep writing.**_


	8. April Fools II

_**A/N: Hello, everyone! As promised, this is the second part of my mini-April Fools' Day series in this collection, in which Dean gets pranked. Or will he? Also, just in case, I'm putting a spoiler warning up to S8. Enjoy!**_

 _ **April Fools' II**_

Being a full-time hunter meant Dean had become accustomed to functioning on only four hours of sleep or less. It was enough of an uphill battle just to tumble out of bed, because his body ached to remain under the covers where it was warm and safe, but the obligation of hunting eventually motivated him to move along. There were supernatural creatures out there to kill and people to save, and every second he stayed in that bed could mean a world of difference.

Today was one of those days where he'd rather stay in bed. Unfortunately, that was one of the oldest rules of hunting: there were always sacrifices to be made.

Scraping the crust from his corneas, he stumbled out of his bedroom without bothering to check the clock or calendar. For too long now, the days seemed to bleed together; he was lucky to even remember their birthdays or Christmas. And yet it didn't stop him from being haunted by the anniversary of his mom's death, or Bobby's, or his dad's….

He wandered blindly toward the kitchen, feet dragging on the floor, stifling a wide yawn. Half the time he felt like a zombie straight out of _The Walking Dead_. Except instead of brains, he craved pie and beer.

Speaking of pie….

"Hello, beautiful," Dean purred, his brain kicking to life at last. There it was: a thick, heavenly slice of pie waiting for him on a paper plate in the middle of the kitchen floor. If he hadn't opened his eyes in time, he would have stepped right into it. _Whoa now, Dean,_ he thought, pausing beside the pie. _Why would there be a slice of pie waiting in the middle of the floor like that? Either it's a gift from God…or it's a trap._ Paranoid, he peered around the kitchen to see if he was being watched, but there was no sign of Sam or Cas poking their heads out.

There was a white slip of paper with his name on it, written in Castiel's graceful script, propped up like a teepee in front of the pie. He snatched up the note and skimmed it.

 _Dean, please accept this pie as a token of our everlasting appreciation for you. There is nothing unusual about this, I assure you. Sincerely, Castiel and Sam._ There was even a small heart at the bottom. He wondered if that was from Sam or Cas or both. Probably Cas, in effort to appear unsuspicious.

 _There is nothing unusual about this, I assure you,_ he read again. That made him suspect there _was_ something unusual about this. It _looked_ like pie, it _smelled_ like pie… _Let's see if it tastes like pie,_ he decided. Dean balled up the note and chucked it over his shoulder. Then he reached down to seize the pie.

It moved.

The paper plate slid away from his fingers, taking the pie with it. _What the hell?_ He reached out for it again, only to witness the same frustrating result: the pie ran away. He ducked, dove, and dipped, but each time the pie refused to be caught by the likes of Dean Winchester. All he earned was a faceful of dirty floor.

"Dammit, pie," he growled.

Someone was playing a cruel joke on him. Thanks to that note, he already had two suspects in mind.

Crouching down, he examined the pie without touching it. He spotted the small hole cut into the plate and, narrowing his eyes, the gleaming fishing line that pulled it away each time. There was a tiny black circle next to the hole—a camera.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered. Two could play at that game. Creating distance between him and the pie—for now—he searched the kitchen for something he could use. _Yahtzee!_

….

"I think we've got him," Sam gloated, hardly containing his laughter.

Cas was the one reeling in the fishing line that was tied to the plate, yanking it away from Dean every time, while Sam watched the camera feed on his laptop. It was entertaining to see Dean's face so close to the camera, looking frustrated as he chased the pie. If they weren't hunters or unofficial criminals, Sam would have submitted the video to _America's Funniest Home Videos_.

For some reason, Dean wasn't chasing the pie anymore. His face vanished from the screen.

"Where did Dean go?" Cas demanded, his blue eyes straying to the computer screen. Sam noticed how panicky he sounded, like a child that suddenly realized his mother was no longer in sight. Then Dean's face reappeared on the screen and Cas visibly relaxed.

Dean reached for the pie again.

"Reel it in. Go, go, go!" Sam ordered, rotating his finger in a circle. Cas fumbled with the fishing line. The plate rounded the corner and the two of them stared in astonishment.

There was no pie.

Only a bunch of bananas.

This had to be Dean's way of calling them dicks. Ever since they were kids and Dean gave him The Talk using a banana, it was the only thing the two of them could associate forevermore with that particular fruit. Every time Sam ordered a banana split, Dean would tease him about eating "frozen dick" for dessert.

Under the bananas was the note they had left for Dean, terribly wrinkled after Dean had balled it up. It was Cas' idea to put the heart because he was convinced Dean would be less suspicious if he was showered with affection. Sam knew the opposite was true; Dean would be even more suspicious.

It turned out that Dean scribbled a note of his own: _Nice try, bitches!_ Two hearts.

"Jerk," Sam grumbled, out of habit. He crumpled up the note. "Looks like we've been Bugs Bunny'd, Cas." He was only glad there hadn't been real sticks of dynamite waiting for them, like in those old Saturday cartoons. Cas stared at him blankly, puzzling out his meaning.

"Forgive me, Sam, but…what does a bunch of bananas have to do with insects or rabbits? Unless you mean that we, the hunters, have now become the hunted. If you don't mind, I'd prefer to be the bunny—it's softer and has the typical amount of legs."

"Yeah, sure. Sounds good," Sam agreed, patting Cas on the back.

Sam and Cas marched into the kitchen. In the middle of the floor lay Dean, sprawled like Leonardo da Vinci's _Vitruvian Man._ He sucked the last spot of whipped cream off his thumb and gazed up at them smugly.

"April Fools," he sang, flashing a toothy grin. Sam crossed his arms and checked his watch, counting the seconds. He was smug, too, much to Dean's confusion. "I don't get it, Sam. You _tried_ fooling me and _I_ fooled _you_. Why are you still smiling like that?"

"Because," he said proudly, his grin stretching, "I put laxatives in that piece of pie. Just in case you were somehow smart enough to get your hands on it." Dean opened his mouth to protest—or maybe to call Sam's bluff—but his hand flew to his stomach. He glared up at the two of them.

"Oh, _hell_ no," he moaned and leaped up from the floor, racing out of the kitchen and nearly knocking Cas off his feet in the process. "Screw you, Sam!"

Sam hoped his brother made it to the bathroom in time.

"April Fools, Dean."

"Will Dean be okay?" Castiel wondered, his expression pinched with concern. Sam shrugged, no longer bothering to hold back his laughter.

"Only time will tell."

…

 _ **A/N: I don't know why, but I have pie on the brain lately. Next time, it'll finally be Sam's turn! I want to take a minute to thank everyone that is generous enough to leave a kind review. It certainly encourages me to keep writing. (-;**_

 _ **To Emma Winchester 424: Thank you so much for the awesome review! I'm glad that you found these one-shots entertaining—that was my intention. Also, I'm glad I'm not the only one that's pleased by the fantasy of Castiel delivering pizzas, though Dean delivering pie would be an added bonus.**_

 _ **To jkwhedon1919: Thank you for taking the time to read these one-shots! It's certainly a challenge to avoid writing these characters OOC, but it's encouraging to hear that I'm writing them well so far. Don't worry; there will be plenty more to come.**_

 _ **To deadone1013: Yeah, Castiel definitely walked right into that one. Of course, he always takes things too literally, so if I were the Winchesters, I would be a little worried about the possibility of payback in their near future. I hope you enjoyed this one-shot, too.**_

 _ **Also, for those who tuned in this week, what did you think of the latest episode? Personally, I love every new episode of Supernatural, but this one was a really good one, with a few old, familiar faces thrown in. It's probably one of my favorite episodes of Season 11 so far, along with "Baby."**_


	9. April Fools III

_**A/N: Happy April Fools' Day, everyone! This is the final part in my little April Fools' Day series for Cas, Sam, and Dean. Guess what? It's finally Sam's turn to be fooled. I hope everyone enjoys reading it and has a safe, fun April Fools' Day.**_

 _ **April Fools III**_

"This is classic," Dean gushed as he headed toward Sam's bedroom, a mischievous grin on his face. A can of whipped cream bounced from one palm to the other. Castiel dogged his heels. As they neared their destination, Dean pressed a finger to his lips, commanding silence before creeping into Sam's bedroom.

Since it was five in the morning, Sam snored obliviously in his bed, hair fluttering with each breath. His laptop was open on his chest, a picture of Jessica in place of the screensaver. Dean supposed they didn't really need to stay that quiet, after all; Sam's snores were obnoxious enough to wake the dead.

"Ah. So _that's_ the monster I heard last night," Cas marveled, his blue eyes ablaze with recognition. "I assumed you two adopted a dragon."

Dean held his finger to his lips urgently. It wouldn't be smart to wake the sleeping dragon. Tiptoeing to Sam's bed, he knelt down and shook the can. _Shhh—_ he sprayed a mountain of whipped cream into Sam's waiting palm.

"Feather," Dean requested, holding out his hand. Obediently, Cas passed over a curved, sleek black feather that Dean instantly recognized as one of Cas' own. He twirled it between his thumb and forefinger, admiring the silver sheen cast by the dim light from the hall.

"Did it hurt?" he asked.

"When I fell from Heaven?" Cas sighed, as if he heard the line several times before. "Of _course_ it did, Dean. Don't ask stupid questions." He gave Cas an astonished look.

"What? No, I meant—never mind," he said, returning to the task at hand. He dangled the tip of the feather over Sam's nose. "Now watch and learn, Cas."

"I'm watching intently," he assured, bending over Dean's head. The hairs on the nape of Dean's neck rose from the close proximity. If he turned his head, he would stare straight into Cas' impassive face. His tie hung over Dean's shoulder and he flicked it away.

"Cas?"

"Yes, I know." He took a step back. Dean nodded approvingly. He poised the feather above Sam's face again. "Should I take notes?" Dean had been about to get started, but he yanked the feather back, his concentration squandered. He blinked up at Cas with wavering patience.

"It wouldn't kill you."

To Dean's amazement, Cas straightened up and retrieved a portable pad of yellow sticky notes from his pocket, along with a fountain pen to scribble down notes. The angel had a nasty habit of taking things too literally.

Eventually, the scratching of Cas' pen grated on Dean's nerves and he shot to his feet to see what he was writing. Cas shielded the notepad against his chest, but Dean snatched it away. _How to Torment Sam. One: Purchase a can of dessert decorations. Whipped is preferable. Spray in palm. Two: Acquire a feather. Luckily my wings have over one thousand. Three: Position feather over Sam's nose-_

"Seriously?" Dean offered Cas a look of disbelief. "You counted your feathers? That's like me counting eyelashes or the hairs on my head." Cas stole the pad of sticky notes back.

"For your information, there is pride in the number of feathers an angel's wings contain. Like the rings of a tree, the more feathers an angel's wings have, the older the angel. Fortunately, _your_ age is not determined by the hairs on your head. You shed at the rate of a German Shepherd, Dean."

Dean ran a hand along his hair.

"Wait a minute…Did you count those, too?"

"How can I when you won't stop moving long enough for me to finish?" Dean shifted uncomfortably under Cas' intense gaze.

Cas ripped off the note and posted it on the inside of his trench coat. A flash of yellow caught Dean's eye and he ripped open Cas' coat to see over a dozen sticky notes. _How to prepare soup: never microwave in the can. How to drive a vehicle: not the same controls as Sam's magical box of X. How to sleep: observe Dean—_

"What did I tell you about watching me sleep? It's creepy, Cas!" Dean released Cas' coat, his expression bewildered. " _That's_ what you keep in there?"

"Where else would I keep them, Dean? I'm disinclined to follow your advice in lodging objects in my private bodily orifices," Cas retorted. "I've been meaning to find a safer place to store them for future reference. The woman at the staple store confided in me that this is the best way to remember something. I promised that I would honor her secret." Dean shook his head and mouthed the word _wow._

"Man, I'll tell ya…you are something else, Cas." He knelt down by Sam's bed again to resume his work.

Lightly, he tickled Sam's nose with the feather. Sam's nose twitched and his hand instinctively flew up to scratch it, leaving behind a dollop of whipped cream. Dean sprayed some more whipped cream into Sam's hand. He tickled Sam's cheeks, jaw, and forehead, until his brother resembled a painted clown. He had to bury his head in his arm to stifle his giggles.

"I believe I understand this sort of humor," Cas said proudly. "You're using Sam's natural bodily reflexes to your advantage in order to humiliate him while he is defenseless. Clever, Dean. Do it again."

Dean gladly tickled Sam's nose again. Every time Sam snored, he snorted up the whipped cream and blew it off his face in thick suds.

"I have an even better idea," Dean declared, laying down the feather. He clicked some of the keys on Sam's laptop. _Click-clack, click-click-clack—_ like magic, Sam's hand swiped across the keyboard, coating it in whipped cream. Half asleep, he shut the lid of the laptop with the same hand and shoved it off his chest.

"How long do you intend to carry this out, Dean?" Cas wondered. Dean shrugged.

"Until he wakes up. Or until he looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy."

"You would never do this to me if I slept defenselessly, would you?"

"Of course not," Dean assured him, though he swallowed down another chuckle. Luckily for Cas, angels didn't need to sleep, so he would never have to find out what that was like.

Suddenly, Dean's face lit up as an exciting idea popped into his head. This one would be the best yet.

Grabbing a pencil off Sam's desk, he used the eraser to poke Sam's crotch. Sam rubbed his cream-coated hand between his legs. He woke up with a start to the sound of Dean's cackling. Dean was red in the face and rolling on the floor while Cas stood there like a statue, gazing at Sam in silent alarm.

"Dean, what the hell-?" Sam bellowed. Of course, when Dean sat up and looked him in the face, with his moustache and beard of whipped cream, Dean burst out laughing again. "What?"

"Sam, you have something on your face," Cas told him sympathetically. Sam wiped his jaw, which only served to smear the cream further. Dean laughed harder, sounding like a hyena. That was when Sam noticed the cream on his hand, and his shirt, and his crotch, and he glared down at his brother.

"Dean, Cas—"

There was a rustle of wings and Cas was gone in an instant. He didn't like conflict. That only left Dean, who shakily rose from the floor, gasping for breath.

"Oh…ah…That will never get old. After all these years, you still fall for that," Dean teased. He reached down for the can of whipped cream, but Sam seized it. Dean raised a hand in caution. "Sam, you wouldn't dare—"

"Wanna bet?"

The next thing he knew, Dean was running for his life through the bunker as Sam hunted him down spraying the whipped cream.

"How does it feel, Dean? I can keep up; I have longer legs than you!"

…..

 ** _A/N: I want to take this moment to thank those that reviewed last time. Your words mean the world to me. Also, here's a_** _ **little teaser: next time, I might return to writing some little brother!Sam and big brother!Dean. Yay or nay?**_

 _ **Deadone1013: You're right, never mess with the Pie! It is a sacred thing in the world of Supernatural, at least to Dean Winchester. I hope you enjoyed this one-shot just as much as the others! (-;**_

 _ **I-Heart-Star-Trek: Thank you so much, mostly for taking the time to check out these one-shots in the first place. Hope you'll stick around for more!**_


	10. Parents' Night

_**A/N: Hey there, everyone! This one-shot is a little longer than the others I've done so far, but it's also very special. It's a young Winchesters one-shot and there is a special character appearance. I hope everyone enjoys it.**_

 _ **Parents' Night**_

"Balls," Bobby grumbled, ripping off the infernal tie around his neck and starting over for the third time. He owned exactly one suit and one tie for those times when he had to dress sharp in public. At the moment, he looked like a grumpy bear stuffed in that suit. It was tighter than he remembered and it had been a long time since he had to fix a tie around his neck. His reflection scowled, conveying all the frustration he currently felt.

Come to think of it, that was the only part of him that was still recognizable: gone were the dusty work boots, the old favorite cap, and his faded blue jeans. His hair was slicked back, his beard neatly trimmed. As an afterthought, he had popped a few mints to hide the smell of beer on his breath.

 _The things I do for these boys,_ he thought in fleeting annoyance.

It was Parents' Night at Sam and Dean's school. Granted, they had been enrolled in four different schools this year, and this one would be no different. As soon as John Winchester found a new case, they would be off, chasing after ghosts and demons instead of learning mathematical equations.

It should have been John dressing up in a monkey suit and confronting teachers for the sake of his boys. With a bitter taste in his mouth, Bobby remembered how swell it had been, dropping that hint to John Winchester.

….

 _"Bobby, is this a joke? Parents' Night?" John Winchester sneered, pausing in the middle of loading up the Impala to give him a skeptical look. Bobby crossed his arms and returned a much darker stare until John lowered his eyes, no trace of humor in his face._

 _"Do I look like I'm laughing? Because clearly their education is nothing but a big joke," he retorted sarcastically. John rubbed a callused hand over the back of his neck, his muscles stiff with exhaustion and aggravation._

 _"I didn't mean…" His voice trailed off as he chose his words carefully. Bobby narrowed his eyes. "I just don't see the point in it. If there was anything wrong at school, the boys would have told me."_

 _In two short strides, Bobby reached John's side and jabbed a finger at his chest. John stared down at it like it was a loaded gun. It was for the sake of those two boys that Bobby didn't whack him over the head with one._

 _"First of all, it's not always about what's wrong. Sometimes, it's enough to know what's right in this world. It might have escaped your notice, but those boys are growing fast and they're working their little asses off! They deserve more credit than you give 'em. Second, those boys wouldn't tell you if something was wrong! They're too afraid of disappointing you and making life harder for you!"_

 _"That's not true," John said weakly, dropping his satchel of weapons into the trunk. Bobby grabbed him by the lapels of his shirt and pinned him up against the car, face-to-face._

 _"Open your eyes, dammit! Why do you Winchesters need to be so damn stubborn?" John pushed Bobby off him, but there was nowhere for him to run. Besides, Bobby was determined to make him hear this. "Sam is a little boy, and he keeps his head so low that I forget what his eyes look like! Keeps his nose stuck in a book all day! And Dean—that poor boy. Dean grew up too fast so he could play Sam's brother, father,_ and _mother! I've never seen a boy give up so much for his brother. All he wants to do is make you proud, so he obeys your every order to the tee! News flash! Kids ain't supposed to be soldiers, John, they're supposed to bitch at each other, rebel against you, take everything you give for granted, and make you unhappy! And you're supposed to let them because you love 'em too much."_

 _"You know what, Bobby, you clearly know what's best for my family, so why don't_ you _go to this Parents' Night? Meanwhile, I have a case," he snapped, slamming the trunk closed._

 _"You always have a case." Bobby stepped away from John. If he wanted to go, there was next to nothing Bobby could do to stop him._

 _"Yeah, well….the world always needs saving," he muttered, marching for the driver's side. Bobby snorted._

 _"Right._ That's _why you do it." John didn't answer. They both knew John was hunting for a different reason than saving lives. That was only a bonus. It all went back to Mary and the demon that killed her on November 2, 1983. John's personal Moby Dick. "You're a pitiful sight, John Winchester, lying to yourself."_

 _John had opened his door, but he whirled back around to glare at Bobby._

 _"I don't have to answer to you."_

 _"No," he admitted, "but you will answer to those two boys. One day."_

 _John didn't say anything else. He climbed into the front seat of the Impala and left a trail of dust in his wake._ Idjit, _Bobby thought angrily, turning back toward the house._ Maybe I ought to go to Parents' Night, if he won't. For those boys.

 _Inside the house, Sam and Dean were playing a game of rock-paper-scissors for the remote again. As he leaned against the doorframe and watched, Dean played the usual scissors and lost to Sam, who happily seized the remote. Bobby shook his head and had to wonder if there weren't times when Dean lost on purpose._

… _.._

When Bobby arrived at the school at seven-thirty, the first classroom he searched for was Dean's. Not only because Dean was the oldest, but because, unlike John, he was well aware that Dean was facing problems at school. Half the time, Bobby fought tooth and nail with the boy to get his homework done. Everything he said went in one ear and out the other. Obviously, Dean was doomed to inherit his father's thick head.

Better to get that out of the way as soon as possible.

Bobby felt more like a shapeshifter walking among the crowd of parents, someone who was only playing a part and didn't quite fit in. The suit was stuffy and suffocating, not at all comfortable compared to his usual jeans and flannel.

There were bulletin boards crammed with art up and down the hallway. The paintings of family and flowers weren't exactly Michelangelo, but parents gathered around to fawn over the ones their children made. Bobby paused to inspect one of the boards. He wondered if Sam and Dean made any of these, but he didn't see their names. Then again, they were enrolled late into the school year.

The classroom was less crowded than the hallway, giving Bobby a chance to breathe. Already he was sweating up a storm and scratching the skin under his collar. He yearned to whip the tie off for good. There was one long table set up in the back of the room, offering coffee and Munchkins. Bobby had no taste for coffee, but he accepted one of the glazed chocolate Munchkins and popped it whole into his mouth.

"Hello and welcome. So, which child belongs to you?" The teacher inquired, sneaking up behind him. Bobby almost choked, his mouth full of Munchkin. He held up a finger, begging for a moment of patience, and swallowed before answering.

"Dean Winchester's my boy," he said proudly. Those two boys were practically the sons he never had. Unfortunately, the teacher did not share in his joy, her smile slipping as soon as the name left his mouth. A troubled wrinkled creased her brow. All Bobby could think was that if she tied her graying hair more severely in that bun, her eyes might have popped out.

She pulled him aside and sat down in two empty chairs. Bobby squirmed uncomfortably in the too-small desk.

"Dean is…" She paused to consider her words carefully, removing her round spectacles to massage the wrinkle from her brow. "Well, quite frankly…um…?"

"John," he offered. His stomach knotted distastefully with the sound of the fake name. It only served as a reminder that the real John Winchester was not here.

"John," she conceded, forcing a tight smile. It did not comfort him. "Dean seems to be having difficulties in class. I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but he has missed several classes recently. If he misses any more, I'm afraid he will be in danger of staying back. There are days when he doesn't turn in any homework and he doesn't put much effort in participating in class, either. Perhaps what he needs is some after-school help. Maybe even a tutor."

Logically, Bobby had anticipated every word the teacher said and even knew the reason for Dean's behavior. This was Dean giving up the fight before it even began. The boys moved around so much with their father that they never spent an entire year in any school, so Dean no longer bothered to try as hard. Bobby feared he had already accepted his future as a hunter, just like John. What was a high school diploma or college education worth when you were up against ghosts and demons?

In his heart, it was harder to accept what he heard. _Dammit, Dean,_ he cursed mentally. _I know you're smarter than this._

"Yeah, I know," Bobby sighed heavily. "I've been helping him when I can." He thought of all the nights he made Dean sit at the kitchen table until he finished his homework, despite the angry looks he earned for it. "It hasn't been easy for Dean since he lost his mother. Plus, he's—we've—moved around a bit since then. Probably more than the average kid."

The teacher nodded understandably, her gaze probing over his face. He didn't like the way she stared at him, like a therapist trying to get inside his head. Her lips pursed.

"Well, Mr. Winchester, it might be better for Dean to be able to talk openly about these issues with someone he trusts. Every person has the right to grieve after such a tragedy, but it can be more harmful than helpful if he bottles it up. What he also needs is _stability_. If you move around as much as you suggest, perhaps Dean doesn't feel the need to try hard in school, knowing there will be another one somewhere down the road," she said, echoing what he already knew in his head. "Of course, we're happy to help him where we can, but his home life can be just as critical to his success."

"I get that," Bobby insisted, all the while cursing John Winchester for the umpteenth time that evening. If it wasn't for John's crazy obsession with the demon, if the boys hadn't been exposed to the hunting business, maybe Dean would be much happier now. He stood and held out his hand to shake hers. "I'll make sure to talk to Dean when I get home. Thanks again."

"No, thank _you_ for coming tonight. Honestly, I can see you care for Dean. Just make sure you do right by him." She forced a smile again and turned to greet another group of parents that looked far more cheerful.

 _I'll pass along that message._ Bobby headed out the door, not wanting to linger there a moment longer. He began to itch under the collar again. _Screw the tie,_ he thought, whipping it off.

….

After visiting Dean's teacher, Bobby dove into the sea of parents again and fought his way to Sam's classroom. Since Sam was at a younger level than Dean, his classroom was much more colorful, with self-portraits decorating the walls along with several inspirational posters that said cheesy things like _Shoot For the Moon; Even If You Miss, You'll Land Among the Stars!_

Sam's teacher was younger, somewhere in her late twenties, and much quicker to smile. He knew how this meeting would go, too, but still he hung onto every word.

"Sam is a wonderful student and a smart boy, if not a little quieter than most children in class. You must be very proud of him. I'm sure you know he's an avid reader," she sang his praises.

"Yeah, he gets that from me," Bobby boasted, thinking of all the times he caught Sam peeking through the books in his study. Instead of scolding him, Bobby encouraged the hunger for reading that Sam seemed to have. Of course, he had steered Sam away from the books about witchcraft and demonic possession and toward the fantasy and mystery novels his wife used to read.

Dean, on the other hand, turned his nose up at the idea of cracking open a book, as if it was "uncool." That was another behavior Bobby planned to nip in the bud. After his wife's death and the stinging realization that he could have saved her if he only knew how, he swore never to be caught not knowing something again. Better to be knowledgeable than ignorant in life.

"There is something I'd like you to see," the teacher said, snapping her fingers as the thought came to her. She led him toward her desk, where she retrieved a manila folder from one of the drawers. "About a week ago, I asked the class to do a writing assignment about their role models. As a rule, I don't like to pick favorites, but…Sam's was one of the best to read."

For a moment, she held the paper close to her heart, as though hesitant to part with it. Then she handed it over to him. Bobby read it silently, and as he read, his eyes widened in awe. _Well, I'll be damned,_ he thought, amazed and even a little moved by what he read.

"Do you mind if I take this with me?" he asked suddenly. The teacher waved it away.

"Oh, by all means. The assignment was already graded. Feel free to take it home."

"Thanks." Bobby folded up the paper and slipped it into his suit jacket. Without another thought, he snatched another glazed Munchkin on his way out the door, and kept going until he was out of the school.

…..

Even though it was going on nine o'clock at night, Dean was still awake when Bobby got into the house. The boy sat at the kitchen table, phone pressed to his ear, and foot tapping away. Bobby faintly recognized the message for John's voicemail and Dean sighed.

"Hey, Dad. Just wanted to check in and…I hope everything's going okay. Sam's fine…I guess I'll talk to you later. 'Night." With a long face, Dean set the phone down and only then noticed Bobby standing there.

"Your dad's not answering again, hm?" Dean shook his head. Bobby frowned. The least John could do was call and let his boys know he was alive. He reached for a beer in the fridge—he needed it—and he poured Dean a glass of water. Every drink in his house was laced with holy water, but Dean couldn't tell the difference as he sipped quietly.

"I just…" Dean's voice faded. His fingers drummed the side of the glass. "Never mind."

"What is it? Come on, boy, out with it," Bobby urged him. Dean hesitated, giving him a roll of the eyes. "And don't you roll your eyes at me, either!" Dean lowered his head.

"It's stupid. I wanted to call him to wish him goodnight and make sure he was okay." He shrugged carelessly, but Bobby knew the truth. Along with the trademark stubbornness, it was the Winchester way to put on a brave face and mask anything resembling true feelings. It might have fooled the rest of the world, but Bobby wasn't born yesterday, nor did he survive by being naïve.

"It ain't stupid," Bobby reassured him. "You're looking out for your dad. He'll be fine. Now let's talk about school."

"Ugh," Dean groaned, slouching down in his seat. Bobby sank into the one directly across from him. In the suit, it felt more like an interrogation.

"You and me both. I didn't exactly go out there tonight to join your cheerleading team. Your teacher says you're missing class and not even trying when you're there." Dean sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

"What does it matter? We're just going to another school anyway," he argued.

"It matters. There's no honor in deciding not to fight. You're taking the easy way out. Just because your father is happy to throw away a normal life doesn't mean I'm going to stand by and let you do the same. You're strong, you're smart, and you deserve better than that kind of life."

Dean's eyes widened, as if he never heard anything like it before.

"What did Sam's teacher say?" Dean asked, changing the subject. Bobby only hoped that half of what he said stayed with Dean. From his jacket, he pulled the piece of paper with Sam's childish writing all over it.

"Here, she gave me this. Sam wrote it. I figured you might want to read it." He slid the paper in front of Dean before getting up to leave. He was eager to strip off the suit and bury it in the deepest corner of his wardrobe where it would hopefully never see the light of day again. At the door, he paused. "Not wanting to try for yourself is one thing. At least do it for him."

Then he left Dean alone to read silently.

 _When you ask me about my role model, you probably expect me to say Batman or Superman. They're my favorite superheroes, but they're not my role models. It's not because they're not real people, but because they're too busy saving the entire city of Gotham or the entire world. If they were real, they probably wouldn't think much about me._

 _My role model is a superhero that's only there to save me. My big brother, Dean. Even though we fight sometimes, I want to grow up to be just like him, because he's always brave, strong, and smart, even if he pretends not to be. He's there when Dad is gone, so I know that I can count on him to be there for me. Once I skinned my knee outside and it bled. I was scared, but Dean knew how to carry me inside and put a Band-Aid on it. He checks under my bed every night for monsters. If there were monsters, I bet he would scare them off for me. He tells the best scary stories when Uncle Bobby thinks we're sleeping. He makes me laugh so hard that milk sometimes comes out of my nose at breakfast. I get the feeling that he lets me win rock-paper-scissors, too._

 _Dad is gone a lot these days, and I never met Mom, but if I didn't have my brother Dean, I think my life would be really lonely and unhappy. One day, I want to be able to save him, too. Everyone needs a hero, and my brother Dean is the best one._

At the very bottom, Sam even drew a picture of his brother, looking much bigger and stronger than he was in real life. Apparently, to Sam he was a giant with big muscles.

Dean lowered the paper and tried to wrap his mind around what he read. He wasn't the type to be surprised easily, but he also hadn't expected Sam to praise him for his efforts. It was his job to take care of Sammy; it had been his job since he was four years old. Mostly, he did it because his dad was counting on him.

He had never really considered himself to be anyone's hero before.

…

"Uncle Bobby? How was Parents' Night?" Sam asked politely over breakfast the following morning. Before Bobby could turn away from the stove to answer, Dean hopped off his chair like something bit him and dashed out of the children. Sam and Bobby exchanged concerned looks. A moment later, Dean returned, brandishing a piece of paper.

"Hey, Sammy, look what I've got! It's your role model essay. Uncle Bobby brought it home last night," Dean teased. Bobby pounded his fist against the counter, startling the boys. Sometimes Dean cared for Sam better than John did and sometimes…sometimes he could be just as much of an idjit. Boys would be boys.

"You weren't supposed to read that!" Sam jumped up and tried to grab the paper. Dean easily held it out of reach, being much taller than his younger brother. Luckily, Bobby knew how to handle Dean by now.

"I'll make ya a deal. Give it to him and ya can have the last piece of bacon," he negotiated.

"Ooh," Dean sang. He lowered the piece of paper and Sam snatched it away. Bobby handed over the last piece of bacon to Dean, who eagerly scarfed it down. Sometimes you didn't have to raise your voice to children; sometimes you just needed to give them something they wanted more. "Aw, take it easy, Sammy. I liked it," Dean told his brother after wiping the grease from his face. Sam looked surprised, protecting his paper from view. "If it makes you feel better, you're my role model, too."

"Really?" Sam beamed, lifting his head. Dean playfully punched his shoulder.

"Course. Who else would it be? Batman? Hey, why not put it on the fridge while you're at it?" he suggested. Sam looked over at Bobby.

"Can I, Uncle Bobby?" he asked. Bobby rubbed his bearded jaw.

"What the hell. This place could use a splash of color these days." Sam hurried over to the fridge and pinned the paper with a magnet of a beer bottle from Las Vegas. He smiled proudly before going off to get ready for school. "Nice chick flick moment," Bobby teased Dean after Sam was out of earshot. Dean's cheeks flushed pink. "Did you get your homework done last night?"

"Yeah, Uncle Bobby," he groaned, sounding like he'd rehearsed the answer several times before. Bobby nodded approvingly. At least he was _trying_ —that was all he wanted to hear.

"That's my boy."

…..

The sun blazed red and gold across the evening sky as the boys stopped Baby somewhere in an endless sea of grain and unloaded the cooler of beer. There was still enough light for Dean to read from a crinkled, yellow piece of paper, old memories stirring in his slightly buzzed brain.

"Hey, what's that?" Sam asked, jutting his chin toward the paper in Dean's hand. Dean jumped, his nostalgic reverie shattered.

"Uh, nothing," he lied. He folded up the piece of paper and chugged his beer too quickly, hoping Sam wouldn't ask any more about it.

"Oh. Okay." Dean breathed out in relief.

Suddenly, Sam stole the piece of paper out of Dean's hand, holding it out of reach now that he was the taller of the two. Every time Dean made a jump for it, Sam switched it to the other hand. Dean even chased him around the car, though he slowed down sooner than Sam. Must be all those greasy hamburgers and sugary pies catching up to him.

While Dean leaned against the hood of the car to catch his breath, Sam stopped to skim the paper. Slowly, his expression changed from humor to seriousness and surprise.

"Is this…the essay I wrote about my role model, back in school? You kept it all this time?" Dean shrugged and tilted his head toward the rosy sky.

"After Bobby died, there was no way I could leave it behind. Remember all those years he kept it on his fridge? I think it was the only thing he ever stuck on there." Dean chuckled, thinking about it now.

"With that old magnet shaped like a beer bottle from Las Vegas," Sam added fondly. Dean would have liked to take that as well, but they didn't exactly have a fridge to stick it on. Plus, there was never any way of telling if the littlest thing would tie Bobby's spirit to this world, depending on his attachment to it.

"I told you back then that I liked it," Dean reminded him.

"You mean during your chick flick moment?" Sam taunted with a wide grin.

"Hey, I'm serious. No one ever compared me to Batman. Except me, of course." Sam folded up the piece of paper and handed it back to Dean. He tucked it safely inside his jacket. When they were finally ready to move on, Dean laughed as something else came to mind. "So if I'm Batman, then that makes you Robin."

"I thought I was Superman!"

"Sure, you are, Sammy," Dean said, patting his brother on the back. He snapped his fingers. "Ooh, I got it! To the Babymobile!" Sam scrunched his nose. It sounded like some strange contraption from Toys R' Us.

"Dude, now you're just making it weird."

…..

 _ **A/N: Just so you know, for those who watched the most recent episode, it was tormenting. Halfway through the episode, I was clutching a pillow to my chest. Ugh, Supernatural, why must you make me suffer so?**_

 _ **As always, I would like to take a moment to thank those that have reviewed, for those kind words keep me writing:**_

 _ **I-Heart-Star-Trek: Thank you so much for following this story! It makes me smile to know there are readers out there enjoying these little one-shots. It is so much fun writing for Sam and Dean in their brotherly moments. (-; And everything seems to be much more fun when Cas is sucked into it.**_

 _ **Deadone1013: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I can just imagine Cas wanting to take notes to make sure he understands these references. Plus, you know he always takes things too literally, which makes him entertaining to watch. Don't worry; there will be plenty of Cas in the future!**_

 _ **Emma Winchester 424: I'm glad these one-shots give you a good laugh—that's the point! I always wondered what Cas kept inside his trench coat apart from the angel blade. More to come soon!**_


	11. Hey Jude

_**A/N: Hello, lovely readers! This is a one-shot that I've wanted to write for a while, so I'm glad I finally got the chance to do so. Warning (just in case): spoilers up to S9. This one-shot features Dean's singing, human Cas, and big brother Dean taking care of little brother Sam. Enjoy!**_

 _ **Hey Jude**_

" _Seventy-five bottles of beer on the wall, seventy-five bottles of beer—"_

Dean opened his eyes to the uninterrupted sound of singing. It was two in the morning. He knew that without picking up his head to check the clock on his bedside table, because he had just laid his head on the pillow, having stayed up late doing research with Sam on their latest case.

At this rate, he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight, four hours or otherwise.

He never considered how easily noise carried across the bunker, until….

" _Seventy-four bottles of beer on the wall, seventy-four bottles of beer_ —"

"Cas," Dean snapped. His voice was slightly muffled by the pillow, but he had no energy or desire to lift his head again. The singing stopped.

"Dean? Is that you?" Cas called out. His bedroom was right beside Dean's, which he now started to think was a bad call on his part. He rolled his green eyes under his heavy eyelids.

"No, it's your very own guardian angel. Halo and white dress sold separately," he deadpanned. On the other side of the wall, there was only silence. Dean could easily picture the confusion on Cas' face. " _Yes_ , Cas, it's me. Why are you still awake? I thought you went to bed at ten."

"I did, but I couldn't fall asleep. I closed my eyes, but I couldn't turn off my brain. I would count sheep, except there are no sheep to count. Now I'm counting the invisible bottles of beer on the wall. I should have glued _your_ empty bottles to the wall and counted those."

 _I don't drink_ that _much,_ Dean thought, but the last thing he wanted to do was get into a stupid argument at two in the morning.

"Yeah, I get that," he grumbled into his pillow. His eyelids fluttered, aching for sleep, the eyes beneath them sore from poring over dusty books. Still, he knew that Cas was bound to start singing again. If he ever wanted sleep tonight, he'd have to make Cas fall asleep first. "Just close your eyes."

He couldn't tell if Cas was listening or not, but it was quiet beyond the wall.

"It's dark," Cas said, his voice rising anxiously. "Nothing's happening. And what happens when I do fall asleep? Does my body shut down? Like a machine? What if I need to urinate during the night? What if I have one of those nightmares and I can no longer tell the difference between reality and fantasy? What if I never wake up again? Though I suppose it is one of the most peaceful ways for humans to die. Dean, what if I forget to breathe when I sleep? What if—?"

" _Hey, Jude, don't make it bad,"_ Dean started to sing half-heartedly. " _Take a sad song and make it better—_ "

"Dean? What are you doing?" Cas asked, sounding more puzzled than ever.

"Singing you to sleep. It works much better than sheep and beer bottles; trust me. Just close your eyes, relax, and listen." Everything in the bunker fell silent. Dean could only assume that Cas was listening, so he began to sing again. Just like his mom used to do for him and Sam over their crib.

 _Hey, Jude, don't make it bad_

 _Take a sad song and make it better_

 _Remember to let her into your heart_

 _Then you can start to make it better_

 _Hey, Jude, don't be afraid_

 _You were made to go out and get her_

 _The minute you let her under your skin_

 _Then you begin to make it better_

"Cas?" Dean whispered. He strained his ears to listen to the sounds of the bunker. From the other side of the wall, he heard the gentle rhythm of snoring. _"Hey, Jude" works every time,_ he thought, smiling victoriously as he buried his face into his pillow and closed his eyes.

"That was good, Dean," Sam's voice filtered through the wall on his other side. He must have been listening, too.

Dean opened his eyes and rolled over to stare at the wall that separated his room from Sam's. He pictured Sam on the other side, stretched out on his back, his freakishly long legs hanging over the end, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't understand how Sam could do that, after witnessing his girlfriend die the same way as their mom.

"I did the same thing for you, too," Dean reminded him. It was easy for him to recall the times when that song was the only thing that could make his little brother fall asleep at night, usually when their dad hadn't returned from one of his hunting trips.

"I remember. That's the song Mom sang to you." Dean wanted to point out that their mom also sang it to Sam, but of course Sam had no memory of her, having been only six months old when she died. Dean kept his ears trained on the soft snoring from beyond that other wall, just in case it stopped.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't wake the baby," he pleaded. He barely heard Sam's chuckle through the wall. That was precisely what Cas was now, as a human: a baby in a trench coat. All of a sudden, it felt like he had another little brother to take care of. "Goodnight, Sammy."

"Goodnight, Dean." Once more, the bunker plunged into heavy silence and Dean let his eyelids flutter closed, welcoming sleep. And once more, the silence broke. "Dean? I can't fall asleep."

Dean sighed.

" _Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah! Nah, nah, nah, nah…hey, Jude,"_ he sang. Some things never changed.

…..

 _ **A/N: Obviously, I don't own the song "Hey, Jude." I don't know about you, but I can imagine Dean taking care of Sam with the same song his mom sang to him. I certainly enjoy writing these brother one-shots between these three. I would like to take this moment to thank those that have reviewed recently, because your kind words always keep me going:**_

 _ **Clover: Thank you so much for reading! I'm glad you enjoyed these one-shots and hopefully I'll continue to entertain you in the future. Just like you, I am a sucker for Cas, so there will be plenty more of him soon. Just wait until you see what I have planned for next time. (-;**_

 _ **Emma Winchester 424: Aww, thank you. I wanted the last one to be a little more heartfelt than humorous, just to shake it up a bit. I only wish somebody told John Winchester the same thing that Bobby told him in that last one-shot. I enjoy writing these moments of little brother Sam and big brother Dean, so hopefully there will be more to come. Maybe I'll even include Bobby again.**_


	12. Waiting Game

_**A/N: Hello, everyone! So this week's one-shot is inspired by a moment from the S9 episode "Road Trip": if you recall, it's the scene where Dean, Cas, and Crowley are sitting in the waiting room together. Well, this is an extension of that scene, because I could only imagine the sort of trouble an angel and a King of Hell would get up to if they were put in the same room for too long. Unfortunately, Dean is forced to go along for the ride as chaos ensues.**_

 _ **Here's to hoping that I wrote Crowley well—it's my first time writing for his character.**_

 _ **Waiting Game**_

Dean hated waiting rooms. Crowley certainly had the right idea when he transformed Hell into one endless line of damned souls. There was no worse torture, in his mind, even after everything he suffered downstairs at the hands of Alastair. Sometimes he'd rather take the actual torture instead of being stuck in limbo.

As if the waiting itself wasn't bad enough, it was even worse when he was at a loss to entertain himself. There weren't any good magazines to flip through, at least not the kind he enjoyed reading. There was no television, and even if there was, Dean expected it would play sappy programs like _Days of Our Lives_. The boring elevator music was meant to soothe people, but it only made him want to stuff his ears with the readily available Kleenex. His mind swam and he struggled to keep his fluttering eyelids open. Even the water in the cooler was too warm and bland when what he really craved was a cool glass of alcohol.

The worst part had to be the children. Shrieking, bickering, whiny brats seeking attention.

"Stupid freakin' angel."

"Stupid freakin' demon," Cas mimicked, never missing a beat.

"Excuse you. _Not_ a demon. King of Hell." Crowley brushed invisible dust off his impeccable black suit.

"I fail to see the difference."

"Like hell you do. You don't call _these_ hairless abominations by their proper name: _monkeys_!" Crowley jerked his head in Dean's direction, who happened to be sitting beside the two shrieking, bickering, whiny brats.

" _Hey_! Knock it off!" he snapped, using his best commanding voice. It unsettled him now, how much he sounded like his father. "I don't remember giving birth to you two."

"Sorry, Mummy," Crowley lilted, earning a deathly glare from Dean. Smartass.

The waiting room plunged into a heavy blanket of silence, though Dean wasn't sure that was much better. The only sounds to break that terrible silence were the clicking of keys under the receptionist's manicured nails, the gurgling of water in the cooler, and the dull ticking of a clock on the wall.

Dean wondered how many seconds they would last in this silence. So far, it was less than a minute. _Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty—_

"Will you quit fidgeting?" Cas complained, jabbing his elbow into Crowley's side. He almost landed in Dean's lap as he avoided a slap from Crowley, and Dean shoved him away.

"Is it bothering you? We can't all be pretty wallflowers like you!"

"I am not—!"

"Second warning!" Dean bellowed.

The two of them fell into uncomfortable silence again, their heads bowed as though in prayer. Dean doubted Crowley's inner thoughts were so innocent. If anything, he was busy plotting his next move. Peering around Cas, Dean caught Crowley's eye and passed on a silent warning: _do it, I dare you._ Crowley traced a halo over his head. Yeah, right.

 _One…_

 _Two…_

 _Three…._

"You just kicked me!" Crowley cried out. Dean rubbed a hand over his forehead. _Why me? Oh, that's right: because Sam is too busy being an angel condom to Zeke—or Gadreel—or whatever his name is. Because of me._ "Dean! Did you see what your precious angel did to me?"

" _No_ , I did not kick you. I simply moved and nudged your leg in the process. _Ow!_ _You_ kicked _me_!"

"No, I did not! I _nudged_ you! Believe me, if I kicked you, it'd feel more like this!" This time, Dean caught Crowley stomping on Cas' foot. Cas yelled out again and whipped out his angel blade.

"Give me that!" Dean snatched up the blade, much to Cas' astonishment and Crowley's relief. "You can have this back when you learn how to use it the right way!" Dean slipped the blade into his jacket, where Cas could not reach it. "That's it. Switch!"

He stood up and motioned for Cas to move over. After a moment of opening and closing his mouth like a fish, Cas obeyed. Dean took the seat between them. Maybe, by some stupid miracle, if they sat further apart, they wouldn't be tempted to cause trouble. _Sure, Dean,_ he thought to himself, _and Elmer Fudd will invite Bugs Bunny over for dinner._

Cas did have a point, though; Crowley sure did know how to fidget. He crossed one leg over the other, and then dropped it. He yawned and shifted in his seat, trying and failing to get comfortable. Dean ground his teeth together behind his lips, quickly losing his patience.

At one point, Crowley made a big show of stretching, his arm extending behind Dean's head. In the next instant, he felt Cas recoil in his seat as if something bit him. Dean closed his eyes. _Here we go…_

" _Hey_! Dean, did you witness this _demon's_ physical assault on me?" Crowley folded his hands in his lap and whistled innocently. "He slapped the back of my head!"

"Tattle-tale," Crowley muttered behind his hand, pretending to groom his beard. "And how many times do I need to say it? _Not_ a _demon!_ "

"If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and sounds like a duck, in all probability, it's a duck," Cas replied matter-of-factly.

"Hang on! Are you calling me a _duck_ now?" Dean slapped both of their heads. _"Ow!"_

"Last warning!" he announced, his voice raised several notches in his anger.

" _He started it!"_ The two of them exclaimed in unison, pointing fingers.

"And now I'm ending it! Do not make me get the duct tape, holy oil, and red spray paint from the car! You will not like my version of time-out!" The receptionist's head shot up and she gaped at him. He shrugged. "Kids."

….

 _ **A/N: I would like to take a moment to thank those that reviewed recently:**_

 _ **Deadone1013: Oh, I agree wholeheartedly! Human!Cas is definitely the saddest version of his character; my heart always hurts for him when I see him so lonely and homeless during that season when he's struggling in unknown territory. It's even sadder when you learn that Misha had a troubled childhood and was homeless for a while in real life. That's why I'm trying to include some humor and light in it.**_

 _ **Emma Winchester 424: I'm glad you enjoyed the last one-shot so much. For a while, I was actually indecisive about uploading that one or another one-shot that will come next week. To be honest, I'm not much of a Beatles fan, but Supernatural definitely made me love the song "Hey, Jude." Thanks again for the kind words and encouragement!**_

 _ **Clover: Thank you so much for reading and for telling me how much you loved the one-shot! I love adding humor into my writing, mostly to entertain the fandom. I do enjoy Crazy Cas, but then again I love every side of my favorite angel. I hope you continue to enjoy these one-shots!**_


	13. What's in a Name?

_**A/N: Hello, everyone! This is another one-shot that takes place in S9. In fact, when I uploaded the "Hey, Jude" one-shot, I had originally debated on uploading this one instead. Now you get to see it and I hope you enjoy it.**_

 _ **What's in a Name?**_

 _Bang! Bang! Bang!_

"Casti _el_!"

 _Bang! Bang! Bang!_

"Cas, man, come on! It's been over an hour!"

 _Bang! Bang! Bang!_

"Cas, are you _dying_ in there?"

 _Bang! Bang! Bang—_

Dean's fist pounded relentlessly on the bathroom door, to no avail. His bladder was full to bursting. Pressing his ear to the door, he heard the shower running, accompanied by Cas' deep-throated singing in Enochian. To Dean's untrained ears, it sounded no different from a dying goat.

Impatiently, Dean cursed and stalked off in the direction of the kitchen to wait for Cas to finish up. It was easier than standing outside the bathroom listening to the running water while he struggled to ignore the mounting pressure below his belt.

Sam was in the kitchen when he walked in, sitting at the table and sipping a cup of coffee. He hunched over his laptop, but didn't look up to greet Dean. The bitter aroma of coffee wafted across the room and Dean's abdomen cramped in response. He gripped the back of a chair, crossed his legs, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

At last, Sam glanced up to give him an odd look.

"You do realize you're doing the Potty Dance?" Sam remarked, smirking over the rim of his mug. Dean stopped bouncing, though it took all his effort not to get going again.

"That's because _someone_ is taking another _long-ass shower_ ," he complained, raising his voice in hopes that Cas could hear him over the running water. Slouching down into the chair, he crossed his legs again tightly. Maybe if he formed his body into a human pretzel, it would prevent any leaking. "Have you noticed how strange he is lately?"

"Apart from how strange he is on a daily basis?" Sam pointed out. From the day they met Cas, he was noticeably different from them, being an angel of the Lord. Dean shot his brother a serious look and crossed his legs the other way.

"Think about it. He sleeps until noon, he takes hour-long showers, he pigs out on our food, he doesn't listen to half the things we say anymore, he lays in bed watching Netflix all day, and you don't even want to know what I caught him doing with my Busty Asian Beauties magazine."

Dean shuddered at the memory. He was one step away from rifling through Cas' sock drawer to check for hidden drugs or water bottles full of vodka. _Geez_ , Dean thought, _when did I become Cas' mother?_

"So, basically, a teenager?" Sam said, sounding more amused than concerned. "He _is_ human now, remember? He's bound to have side effects. Obviously he's going to act differently from the angel we're used to seeing. Give him time to adjust."

"Right now, he's going to be the reason I suffer a urinary infection," he muttered, rocking uneasily in his chair.

"Dean, if you really have to go, then why not go outside?" Sam suggested. That was one of the few drawbacks of the bunker that once belonged to the Men of Letters: there was only one bathroom. Normally, he and Sam were the ones fighting over it in the morning, like brothers often did.

"Yeah, right. I can hold it. I am not getting poison ivy in places I don't want it again."

"Again?" Sam inquired.

"I don't want to talk about it, Sammy."

Dean had dealt with his fair share of pain and torment as a hunter—he had even taken a trip down to Hell and rode the Big Dick to Purgatory—but _that_ experience had been one of the worst.

Sam snorted with laughter and sipped his coffee. Slowly. Loudly. Dean slapped his hand down on the table. "I swear, I _will_ end you."

"Is that before or after you wet your pants?" Sam taunted back.

The sound of a door opening made Dean whirl around in his chair, barely breathing as he dared to hope for salvation. He almost lost full control of his bladder right then and there.

Cas wandered into the kitchen, freshly dressed in a gray T-shirt one size too big and a pair of worn jeans that once belonged to Dean. His skin was pink from the heat of his shower, his bare feet lobster-red, and he toweled off his dripping black hair.

"Bathroom's all yours, Dean," Cas said. It was music to his ears.

"Cue the heavenly chorus," he exclaimed and ran for the bathroom like his life depended on it. From the kitchen, Sam and Cas heard the bathroom door slam, immediately followed by an alarming crash. " _Cas_! _Wipe up the water next time_!"

"What did he say?" Cas asked, tossing the damp towel on the back of Dean's vacated chair. Sam sighed. Dean was right—it went in one ear and out the other. Just like a teenager.

"Nothing."

Cas shrugged and made a beeline for the fridge. He pulled out a half-full carton of orange juice. Instead of searching for a cup, he popped open the top and gulped it down, right from the carton. Sam observed him in dismay. Afterwards, Cas wiped the juice from his lips and replaced the carton in the fridge. He scrunched his nose distastefully at the bags of grapes, celery, and carrots in the fridge and moved on to the cupboards to find something far unhealthier. A box of buttermilk crackers, a bag of spicy Doritos, a bottle of chocolate syrup—Cas grabbed all of it, much to Sam's concern.

"Cas, why not try a sandwich or some fruit? You're going to give yourself a stomachache if you eat all that junk," Sam advised him. Once more, Cas proved to have mastered the skill of selective hearing and tore open the box of crackers. Chocolate syrup drizzled over each one. _O-kay,_ Sam mouthed.

"I have never been so hungry! It's like there's a hole in my stomach!" Cas said, his mouth full of chocolate-covered crackers. He glanced down at his stomach, as if to make sure there wasn't a hole there. Then he rubbed it in sweet satisfaction.

Sam predicted he would back in the bathroom within the hour.

"Everything tastes wonderful," Cas continued, reaching for another cracker. "I can taste the food—I mean, _really_ appreciate it for the first time! Take these crackers, for example. Soaked in butter…mmm…." Cas changed his mind and stuffed _two_ crackers into his mouth at once.

"Hey, take it easy with those crackers, Polly," Dean scolded, striding into the kitchen again. After that intense relief, he was practically walking on air. "There's a catch to this human thing. What goes in must come out." Cas paused and considered the crackers that remained in the package. He slid another one between his lips, whole. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Sam closed the lid of his laptop and set aside his coffee.

"Dean, should we talk to him about that other thing?" Sam bobbed his eyebrows in an effort to be discrete.

"What other thing?" Cas and Dean demanded in unison. The former kept his mouth open to anticipate another cracker, though he watched Sam and Dean with the first sign of alarm.

"The _thing_ that you and I discussed yesterday? Over breakfast? The _name_ thing?" Dean snapped his fingers.

"Oh, right. _That_ thing. Have a seat, Cas."

He motioned for Cas to join them at the table, but not before claiming his previous seat and whipping Cas' damp towel away like it had cooties. Cas gulped down his food and obeyed hesitantly. He looked worried as Sam and Dean flanked him on either side, exchanging cryptic, meaningful glances between each other.

Folding his hands on the table, Dean leaned forward and spoke first.

"Listen, Cas—"

"Is this about the water on the floor? Or the long hot showers? You two aren't…kicking me out, are you? I'm sorry." Suddenly, Cas appeared so afraid and desperate that Sam and Dean were at a loss for words.

"Of course not, Cas," Sam soothed him, patting his shoulder. He jerked his head to the side, urging Dean to continue.

"Listen, Cas, you're human now, and we don't know how long you'll stay that way. It could be for a week, it could be for a year. It could be forever. That means you have to blend in. We can make you fake IDs and fake documentation, so you can pass for a normal human being. You know, so you can drive a car, get a real job—"

"I could be a hunter, like you two," he interrupted, his tone at once hopeful. There was a moment of silent communication between Sam and Dean.

"You could," Sam agreed too quickly, in the way people did when they humored a ridiculous idea. Of course, he was more optimistic than Dean, who was strictly realistic.

"Hunting isn't a job or a career. It's not fun and you don't get paid for it. It's dangerous, even life-threatening. All you get out of it is pain, sweat, blood, and tears. Saving people is a bonus. If you're in it, you're in it for life." Cas' shoulders slumped. "All I'm saying is keep your options open. What we wanted to talk to you about was your human name. You might want to choose one while you're… _incognito_."

Cas pondered for a moment.

"How about Steve?" He looked from Dean to Sam, seeking their approval.

"Steve?" Dean repeated, his face contorted with bewilderment. "Like the guy from Blue's Clues?" Just the other day, he had passed Cas' room and caught him two inches away from the television, poking the screen and yelling about where the "clues" were.

Cas gazed down at the bag of crackers he was twisting in his lap.

"It was the first name that came to mind," he explained quietly.

"Steve is a great name," Sam insisted, forcing a bright smile. Under the table, he kicked Dean's leg.

" _Ow_! _Dammit, Sam!_ Uh, yeah, sure. Steve it is. Now what about a last name? And please don't say Blue." Cas' smile faded. Dean thought he recognized hurt in the ex-angel's wide, blue eyes, his head swiveling from one brother to the other. "What's wrong?"

"If I ever had a last name, I assumed it would be Winchester." Sam and Dean stared across the table at each other, their expressions matching in open-mouthed awe. Castiel Winchester certainly had a nice ring to it.

"Just because you're blood doesn't make you family. You gotta earn that," Dean said, not for the first time. When he looked upon Cas again, it was with a sense of pride. "Believe me when I say you earned that name a long time ago. Hell, after all we've been through, you're way more than a friend to us. You're our brother."

He sat back and let Sam handle the rest.

"You'll always be a Winchester to us, but you're also vulnerable to both angels and demons right now. Winchester would be too obvious—for your human persona. Remember, for now, you have to blend in. It's the only way you'll stay safe until we figure this out."

"Do you have any suggestions?" Cas asked. Not many people got to choose their own names, but it was a difficult process for him since he was never anything close to human until recently. Dean grinned.

"Well, since you like the name Steve so much, I was thinking Perry."

"Always with the classic rock references, Dean," Sam scoffed.

"Steve Perry. I like it," Cas agreed. Abruptly, he jumped up from his chair, dropping his junk food on the table. "Now if you two will excuse me, I need to urinate. Badly." He rushed from the room. Sam raised his hand, as if to say _what did I tell you?_

"I warned you!" Dean shouted after him.

….

 _ **A/N: It's part of my head-cannon that if Cas wanted to choose a last name for himself, it would be Winchester. He's earned it by now. (-;**_


	14. Happy Birthday

_**A/N: I have a surprise announcement: I am updating today because this is a special one-shot dedicated to Sam's birthday. I'll probably do the same when Dean's birthday comes around. I'm still going to update on Friday, too, so there will be two one-shots this week instead of the usual one. With that being said, happy birthday, Sam! (-;**_

 _ **Happy Birthday**_

Another year gone.

A homemade cupcake of crushed Oreos, gloopy vanilla pudding, and limp gummy worms. A lit match stuck in the top, waiting to be blown out. _Make a wish._

A folded photograph of a father and his son, enjoying the special occasion with a baseball game. Both smiling, eyes shielded against the afternoon sun with baseball caps.

Until a few days ago, Sam Winchester didn't even know he had a second brother. It was strange, almost uncomfortable, knowing his father had another family out there, one that was never exposed to the dangerous world of hunting. At first, he had envied him. Adam's mother never burned alive on the ceiling above his crib, Adam never tasted demon blood, Adam never risked his life on a daily basis to fight ghosts, vampires, and demons. Adam got to spend his birthdays at baseball games with their father.

 _What did he do on your birthdays?_ Adam had once asked.

Sam remembered it all too well.

…..

"Sam, Dean! Come on, get up, you two! We're burning daylight," their father barked orders, flipping back their covers to leave them exposed to the early morning chill. It was rather civil of him, considering that most of his ruder awakenings featured buckets of ice-cold water, the ear-splitting _pop_ of firecrackers, and the shrill scream of a whistle. _Always be on your guard and be prepared for anything;_ that was one of his oldest rules and one he enforced on many occasions when training his sons to be hunters.

"Mm…what time is it?" Sam moaned, rubbing his sleepy eyes. The first sign of dawn filtered in through the cracks in the shutters, chasing away the shadows and blinding him as he forced himself up to the edge of the bed.

"It's time to get a move on," John Winchester retorted. He yanked up the shutters, which left them even blinder than before. Sam shielded his eyes against the sun, wishing he could crawl back under the covers. "Come on! I've got a new lead!" His father's heavy boots thudded across the floorboards as he headed for the front door of their crummy motel room.

"Happy birthday, Sammy," Dean said in the midst of a wide yawn. Sam's eyes flew open and darted to the calendar on the wall—it was May 2nd, indeed. Much to his amazement, he almost forgot his own birthday, what with the constant moving around. The days occasionally bled together and it was a miracle that he even remembered it was a Tuesday.

Their father paused in the doorway. Apparently, he had also forgotten how special this day was, given the guilty expression on his face.

"Happy birthday, Sam," he said quietly over his shoulder. "Now get dressed and get moving." Unsurprisingly, John Winchester was already fully dressed head to toe and fumbling with a knife in his belt, like a soldier ready for war. Knowing him, that would be the only mention of his birthday for the rest of the day.

"Hey, quit it with the long face," Dean snapped, dutifully tugging on his boots. Like their father, he had learned to sleep comfortably in his jeans, just in case they had to leave at a moment's notice when their father demanded it. "It's because of me that he even remembered your birthday in the first place."

Suddenly, and with a heavy heart, Sam felt sorrier for Dean than he did for himself. After all, he could not remember the last time their father celebrated Dean's birthday. And Dean never reminded him. That was because John Winchester had become a creature of obsession and he rarely took the time to consider anything beyond hunting.

Sam slumped on the edge of his bed and gazed out the window, where the rest of the town slept on in safe, happy homes.

"Why can't we be like other people?" Sam wondered aloud, not for the first time. The kids in those houses got to do whatever they wanted on their birthdays. Those kids got to eat cake, rip open a mountain of presents, and enjoy parties with bouncy-houses, magicians, pony rides, and dozens of friends. The best thing that happened on his birthday was that he could say his father and brother were still alive, and they got to travel to someplace new. He had seen more places in his thirteen years than most people did in one lifetime.

"It's just not us, Sammy," Dean sighed. He finished lacing his boots and surveyed Sam, who had not yet moved to follow their father's orders. He usually never did so without kicking and screaming the entire way while Dean did everything their father asked without question. Now he seemed to entertain a new thought in his mind before getting to his feet. "Stay here. I got something for you," he hinted. That brought some life back into Sam as he sat up straighter on his bed, pondering over what his brother had in store.

Dean wandered toward the narrow kitchen around the corner while Sam waited patiently on the edge of his bed. He could hear the sounds of Dean in the kitchen—rummaging through the cupboards, ripping open packages, opening the fridge. There was an alarming banging noise, as if Dean was taking out his anger on inanimate objects again.

Just when Sam thought he'd have to go looking for his brother, Dean returned with a cupcake in his hand.

It was unlike any other cupcake Sam had ever seen. Definitely not the store-bought type like the ones he saw in the windows of bakeries in some of these small towns they passed through. It was made from crushed cookies, refrigerated vanilla pudding, and decorated with sour gummy worms that Sam knew were a day old. In place of a candle was a lit match, with Dean's hand cupped around the flame. It was a cupcake of Dean's own creation and that instantly made it more special than anything those normal kids got.

"Ooh," Sam murmured with delight, accepting the cupcake into his own hands.

"I made it for you. Since we didn't have the time to pick out a real cake." _Or the money,_ Sam mentally added, his smile dimming. They barely had enough money to their names for the bare necessities like groceries, gas, and motels, and the only full-time job their father had was hunting. That meant there was no money to spare for Christmas trees, new shoes, or even birthday cake. "Well, what are you waiting for? Make a wish before I reach my next birthday."

Sam closed his eyes and blew out the flame. The acrid scent of smoke clung to the air and Dean scrunched his nose distastefully. For some reason, Dean never liked fire. He even shied away from it the one time they made s'mores around a campfire when they went into the woods with their father.

"Well?" Dean said after the smoke cleared. "What did you wish for?"

"I can't tell you! It won't come true!" Dean scowled. Between the two of them, only Sam really believed in superstitions and higher power. Maybe that was why Dean's birthday wishes never came true.

"Aw, Sammy, you're no fun. We both know you'll tell me eventually." Sam sincerely doubted it, if only to prove his brother wrong for once. He removed the smoking match from the cupcake and opened his mouth wide, prepared to sink his teeth into the delicious treat. When he noticed Dean feasting his eyes on it, he offered some to him, but his brother declined with a shake of the head. "It's all yours. Better enjoy it fast."

Sam would have enjoyed it even more if Dean had agreed to share it with him instead of sitting there begging for food with his eyes. When was the last time Dean even had a cupcake? Nevertheless, Sam decided not to let it go to waste and quickly polished it off, licking the pudding from his fingers afterwards.

"And a present," Dean said, sliding his hand under his pillow to retrieve a magazine. It was one of his dirty magazines with the beautiful, nearly-naked woman on the cover. Dean shoved it back under the pillow. "Whoops. Wrong one. You didn't see that." Sam rolled his eyes. As if he didn't know what Dean did when the lights were out and he went under the covers. Dean pulled out another magazine—or, rather a comic book. "Here you go."

It was Dean's favorite Batman comic book, _Mad Love_. One of his only Batman comic books, actually. Sam held it delicately in his hands, as if the smallest touch could destroy it.

"You're giving this to me?"

"To borrow," Dean clarified. "I figured you could use something new to read on the road. Let's get going or Dad's gonna be in a piss-ass mood for the entire car ride." When their father was angry, the entire world knew about it. He seemed smug enough that it would not be him in trouble with their father. Sam rushed to change into a clean pair of clothes—the last pair of clean clothes he had, in fact.

"Hey, Dean," he called his brother back. "Can I ride in front?" Dean gave him the kind of look that questioned his sanity.

"No way! I already called shotgun," he protested.

"Since when?"

"Since now," he declared, much to Sam's annoyance. "Besides, I'm the oldest." Sam crossed his arms and glared. He hated it when his brother played the older brother card.

"But _I'm_ the birthday boy!" Dean wasn't impressed, so Sam switched tactics, laying the infamous puppy eyes on him. Dean groaned.

"Oh, come on, the puppy eyes? No fair, Sammy." Sam kept it up until Dean finally stuffed his fists into his pockets and sighed. "Fine! You can sit up front. This one time!"

Through the window, their father beeped the horn obnoxiously, forcing them to hasten their steps. They gave the motel room one last sweeping glance to make sure they had grabbed everything before heading out the door. _Never leave anything behind;_ that was another one of their father's often repeated rules on the road. Sam only wished they never had to leave at all.

…..

Once again, Sam took out the creased photo of his father and Adam, frozen forever in the middle of a riveting baseball game. The blazing morning sun flashed across his father's face—he looked far healthier and happier in that photo than Sam had ever known him in life. Maybe that was what his father really wanted: to move past their mother's death by an act of revenge and to have a normal life with his family. That's what Sam wanted to believe, that their father would not have let hunting consume him, that he would have found a way out after getting his revenge. No more hunting, no more pain, no more loss…

Too bad that wish never came true.

He had taken the photo to remember his father and Adam that way. Happy. Alive. It was the least he could do for Adam, who he never had the chance to know and who did not deserve to die so brutally.

When he heard Dean join him on the hood of the Impala, Sam slipped the photo in the pocket of his flannel shirt. He had seen the way Dean had looked at that photo and at their half-brother Adam: betrayed, disappointed, envious, because Adam had grown up in a world that they could never truly have.

Dean handed him a cool beer and their bottles clinked together in a silent toast. There was a white plastic bag dangling from his arm. Sam had noticed it the last time Dean had insisted on stopping at the nearest convenience store, but he didn't yet know the contents. Strangely, Dean had refused to let Sam accompany him into the store.

"What's in the bag?" he asked with a point of his chin.

"What? Oh, nothing, just…usual stuff," Dean lied. He tossed it carelessly onto the hood of the car and Sam heard several objects collide inside. He snatched up the bag and poked his head inside, even when Dean tried frantically to get it back.

"Sam! Give me that! Patience is a freakin' virtue!"

Too late, Sam got an eyeful of what was inside. It wasn't "the usual stuff" like pie, bags of junk food, and dirty magazines, but a brand new package of vanilla Oreos, which happened to be Sam's favorite, a six-pack of vanilla pudding cups, a can of whipped cream, a bag of gummy worms, and a small shaker of rainbow sprinkles. It looked like Dean was aiming for a sugar high, except for the box of matches and cupcake holders at the very bottom of the bag.

All at once, Sam understood what Dean meant to do. Not a word of his birthday was mentioned as they finished up their latest case that day. For a while, Sam feared that his brother had forgotten entirely and he had been hesitant to remind his brother of the special occasion.

"Don't tell me you thought I forgot my little brother's birthday," Dean said, slapping Sam on the back. They lived for these precious moments of happiness between long stretches of darkness. It was the only thing keeping them going at times.

"Dean, you didn't have to—"

"Yes, I do," he interrupted, holding up a hand to stop him. "It's my job to take care of you, Sammy. Plus, if I don't celebrate your birthday, who will?"

Dean took the bag from Sam and unloaded the contents on the hood. Sam watched him with practiced ease from many years of performing the same tradition.

First he ripped open the package of Oreos. He and Sam both stuffed a cookie in their mouths before Dean began the tedious process of smashing the Oreos to bits inside the white shopping bag. The crumbs rained down into a cupcake wrapper, along with a glob of vanilla pudding and a cloud of whipped cream. The last ingredients to be added were the limp, colorful gummy worms and a showering of sprinkles. Dean lit one of the matches and stuck it into the top of the whipped cream, a cheap candle.

"Happy birthday," Dean said sincerely, handing over the cupcake. "One of these days, I'll get you a real cake."

"No, don't," Sam said, shielding the flickering flame of the match from the breeze. "Don't get me wrong, it'd be nice to have a real cake like other people, but I'd miss your brilliant cupcake-that's-not-really-a-cupcake. Anyone can go out and buy a cake, but it takes real skill to make one out of crushed Oreos, pudding, and matches."

Dean averted his eyes and rubbed the back of his head, like he often did when he was praised for something.

"Are you gonna stand there being sentimental or are you gonna make a wish?" Sam closed his eyes and thought for a minute. What did he really want in this world? When he decided, he blew out the match and the burning smoke was carried off by the breeze.

"Oh! Before I forget," Dean said, darting toward the back of the car. He popped the trunk open and bent down to retrieve something. He brought back another white plastic bag, this one not as heavy as the one with the cupcake ingredients. "Don't say I never did anything nice for you," Dean said as he tossed Sam the bag.

Sam's face lit up as he unloaded the contents. Presents, as in more than one, wrapped in layers of paper towels because they didn't have time to shop for real wrapping paper. Dean's penmanship was scrawled across the front, as if the gifts could have been from anyone else on that deserted road. Eagerly, Sam tore away the paper towels and beheld each one with a Cheshire cat grin: the latest _Game of Thrones_ book, a roll of dirty magazines, a hairbrush, and a simple black laptop cover.

"Aww, no way," Sam exclaimed, flipping through his new book. He couldn't wait to dive into it on the road, even if Dean made fun of him for wanting to read the books instead of waiting for each new season of the show. Who knew that his brother had taken his complaints to heart? "I was wondering what took you so long in the trunk last time. Now I know. You were gift-wrapping."

"See? I listen," Dean said, sipping his beer. Sam rushed to embrace his brother. "Okay. Yeah, okay. Sam, _get_ _off_! I think I have your hair all over me." Sam took a moment to pamper his hair by guiding the hairbrush through it, making it sleek and shiny. It was frustrating to live without one, especially when his long hair got tangled after showers. Then he carefully returned his gifts to their bag and stored it in the car for later. He offered to share his homemade cupcake with Dean and, this time, he wouldn't take no for an answer.

"Hey, do you remember the year I turned 12 and we snuck some of Dad's whiskey?" Sam reminisced, licking the pudding off his lips.

"Hell yeah, I remember. It was your first drink. We got caught because you couldn't stop coughing!"

"You didn't tell me it burned on the way down!"

"If I did, would you have tried it? Somethings you just gotta learn the hard way." Sam knew his brother was right. That was when he was still young, safe, and naïve to the supernatural forces in the world. Now they knew better than anyone that life was not altogether long and painless. The best way was just to dive in headfirst and hope for the best. "Do you remember the year you turned 16 and the first thing I did was teach you how to drive the family car?"

Sam smiled fondly at the memory.

"Yeah, I dented the bumper when I backed up into a hydrant instead of putting the car in drive. I only made it halfway down the street to a gas station. So you taught me how to do doughnuts in the parking lot while you were hanging out of the window jamming out to "Highway to Hell."

"I was praying the whole time that you wouldn't mow down one of those gas tanks and send us sky-high like in one of those cartoons."

"You prayed?"

"One time, Sammy."

"And we didn't die, did we?" Sam was smug.

"Only because I gave good directions. And because I volunteered to drive home."

"And Dad was pissed about the dented bumper."

"It came out of _my_ allowance to patch it up." Sam didn't feel proud about that. It had been his fault, but Dean had taken the fall for it. Even then, his brother had looked out for him when it wasn't necessary. "That was before I realized he just had Bobby fix up Baby for free every single time. Guess it was his way of teaching another lesson—always take care of our car. It's the only one we've got to get from Point A to Point B."

Dean patted the hood of his car like he was comforting his own child.

"What do you suppose Dad did with the money you gave him?"

"Probably more whiskey. Hunters have their old friends," Dean mused and tipped back his own drink. Every time he took a swig from a bottle, Sam felt worried to see Dean in such a miserable state. He had more demons than he would ever let on.

"When I was 21, Bobby gave me my first real beer," Sam added.

"Mine, too. He called it a tradition that every man that reaches 21 deserves a drink. One of the best forms of medicine for hunters. It was in his kitchen, so you knew those beers were always laced with holy water."

"Bobby was smart. He didn't trust any beer but his own, not even enough to visit the local bar. That's how he survived so long—paranoia."

"Mm," Dean murmured. The boys looked solemnly at their beers, wishing with every ounce of their being that Bobby was there with them to celebrate Sam's special day. Sometimes it was still hard for Sam to believe that Bobby was gone at all. Not only was that man like a second father to them—maybe even better than the first one they had—but Bobby was also one of the best hunters Sam had ever known. He had looked up to Bobby because it seemed Bobby knew everything, and even if he didn't know something, then he would always find the answer.

It wasn't a comfortable topic of discussion for them. Still too soon.

"You know, when I was younger, I used to wish that our lives were normal," Sam admitted.

"I told you that you'd tell me eventually. Like I said, that kind of life was never for us," Dean said.

Deep down, Sam knew his brother was right. Trying to lead normal lives was like trying to squeeze into a coat two sizes too small. Still, it didn't stop Sam from trying once. There was a time when he managed to escape the world of hunting and gain some sense of normalcy at Stanford. He had dreams of being a lawyer, of living in a peaceful suburban neighborhood, and settling down happily with Jessica for the rest of his life. In the end, he got sucked back into it again, proving Dean's point.

"Well?" Dean pulled him back from his thoughts. "What did you wish for this time?"

"I can't tell you that," Sam said. Dean's groaned. "If I do, it won't come true."

Without another word, Sam turned his face back up to the blazing sun and sipped his beer, enjoying the peaceful moment with his brother by his side.


	15. Home

_**Home**_

The first time Dean caught Cas doing it was by total accident.

By "it," he meant Cas' newfound habit of wandering out into the night and standing there for hours, gazing up at the stars.

That first time was at one of the dozens of crappy motels he and Sam stayed in. It was Dean's turn to make a beer run, mainly because Dean was the one that drank the last of the beers the night before. There was the angel, stiff as a statue leaning against the driver's side door of the Impala. His head was tilted back sharply, blue eyes memorizing the sparkling canvas of white diamonds above their heads.

"Hey, scoot," Dean said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Cas let his head fall back into place and blinked, as though just awaking from a dream. He stared at Dean for a long moment and then moved aside. As Dean propped open the car door, he paused and glanced up at the sky. "What are you even doing out here, Cas?"

"I'm…staring up at the stars," the angel answered.

It was something Dean could actually understand. So many times, he and Sammy parked in the middle of nowhere, popped open a couple of beers, and stared up at the stars. It was a reminder that there was a big world out there to save, and that they were just two brothers with a car. It was them against the world.

Yet Dean also noticed how Cas averted his eyes and hesitated, as if there was something more he wasn't saying. Cas was like that sometimes, keeping some cards close to the chest until he felt it was necessary to reveal them to the Winchesters. It was Dean's initial instinct to shake the answers out of him, but he knew from experience that it would only encourage Cas to hide what he was thinking.

"Okay," Dean said and slid into the car. He would let this one go. When Cas was ready to talk, he would come clean. By the time he edged the car onto the road, he forgot all about it.

The second time it happened was at Bobby's place. It seemed that conversation was scarce these days; the tables always turned back around to the angels, particularly how Lucifer wanted to possess Sam to kick off his Apocalypse and how Michael was determined to claim Dean as his one true vessel. Angels like Zachariah insisted it was the brothers' destiny to square off against each other and essentially wipe out most of humanity, but they were fighting tooth and nail to prevent it.

"Those feather-dicks can all go to hell," Dean blatantly put it. Even for him, it was rather a bold statement to make before he tossed back one of Bobby's holy-water-laced beers, but they didn't exactly have a Plan B. Yet. "There has to be another way, and we _will_ find it. The Winchesters don't go down without a fight."

"Will you excuse me?" Cas suddenly spoke up from the corner of the room. Without waiting for an answer, he slipped past them and out the door. The three that remained behind exchanged bewildered looks.

"What the hell's up his ass? Besides the usual stick, of course," Bobby grumbled, glassy eyes lingering on the door where Cas disappeared. He'd been particularly grumpy ever since the tragedy of being confined to a wheelchair. It was becoming a daily occurrence for Bobby to snap at anyone that looked at him the wrong way, even Sam and Dean, but most of his bitterness was reserved for Cas, who no longer possessed the divine miracle of healing.

"It's just Cas having one of his moments," Dean dismissed it with an off-hand wave. "He'll be fine." His tone did not sound so convincing, even to his own ears.

"I don't know, Dean," Sam said, puppy eyes mirroring the worry that Dean felt deep down, coiling like poisonous snakes in his stomach. Maybe it was the beer. "Cas hasn't really been himself, even by his standards, ever since he fell from Heaven. He's probably taking it hard."

Sam always was more sensitive than Dean, more attuned to the emotions of others. Apparently, it even worked with angels like Cas, who were by far the most apathetic beings they had ever encountered. As Dean moved toward the fridge to grab another beer, he glimpsed the Singer Salvage Yard through Bobby's kitchen window, which was basically an old car graveyard. It was almost impossible to spot Cas standing in the center of it all, still and straight as a marble obelisk gravestone, gazing up once more at the night sky.

Maybe Sam was onto something. Cas stuck out like a sore thumb, but this was strange even for him.

"Grab me another one while you're in there," Bobby demanded, pulling Dean back from his thoughts. The door to the fridge hung open, with Dean's hand outstretched for a beer. He turned away from the window and grabbed two.

The third time, Dean couldn't stand it anymore. He needed answers, one way or another. As one of their most powerful allies on the cusp of the Apocalypse, he wanted to be sure that Cas wasn't about to lose a screw. Dean knew it was more than that, though—in a short time, Cas had become one of his best friends. Hell, he was on his way to being a brother to him. Just like with Sam, he felt it was his duty to carry some of the burden on his shoulders.

So he did what he did best: he took action.

"Any shooting stars tonight?" Dean asked, sneaking up behind Cas in the middle of Bobby's car graveyard. Cas didn't show any sign of being startled by the interruption. Dean learned early on that it was hard to get the jump on an angel. Instead, Cas moved over so Dean could lean on the hood of an old, compacted red Mustang. Dean only hoped his Baby wouldn't end up in a place like this.

When Cas met his eyes, he glared, not at all impressed with Dean's quip.

"Sorry," Dean said. Shooting stars weren't the beautiful wonders most people imagined them to be. He knew now that it usually happened when an angel fell from Heaven. They turned their attention back to the inky night sky. There were fewer stars on this cloudy night.

The silence stretched on indefinitely. Cas was never much of a talker. Dean swung his foot, thumping it against the car.

He clucked his tongue on the roof of his mouth.

He hummed an old familiar Bad Company tune in his head.

Finally he grew tired of the dead silence and of putting off the inevitable.

"So, what are you up to, Cas? And don't give me that staring up at the stars crap. There's more to it than that." He peered closely at Cas' face in the darkness. If he didn't know the angel so well, down to the eternal calm expression, he wouldn't have caught the pinch of agitation on his brow.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Well, for one thing, you look like a lost puppy sniffing around for his way home." That was when it hit Dean and he tilted his face to the sky again. Angels didn't look up at a night sky to admire the stars; only humans did that. Angels looked up to Heaven. "Is that it?"

"That's rather cocky of you, Dean. What more could you want from the universe?" Cas replied. As usual, he missed the point.

"No, I mean…that's what's wrong with you. You're homesick."

"I can assure you that I'm feeling well."

"Cas," Dean said. Sometimes the angel's naïve side was tedious to deal with. Part of him understood his plight, though—to leave home without ever knowing if he would find it again. The only kind of home he and Sam had left was a 1967 Chevy Impala and each other. Cas had stood by their side so long, stranded here on earth, that Dean never stopped to wonder how he was holding up.

"Do you ever want to go back?" Dean jerked his chin in the direction of Heaven. Grief hardened Cas' pale face.

"I do miss it," he admitted, "but if the time came, I believe there is a part of me that would be hesitant to return."

That came as a surprise to Dean. Here he assumed that once the Apocalypse was avoided that the angels would gladly return to Heaven where they belonged, including Cas. Like everyone else he'd ever known, they would be forced to say goodbye and to go their separate ways. Why would an angel ever want to stay somewhere as miserable as earth?

"Why?" Dean asked. Cas offered him a pitying look that suggested it should have been obvious.

"It is true I have fallen far from my home, and there is no guarantee that I will be welcomed back into Heaven anytime soon…but I may have found another one in the meantime. If I went back there, I fear that I would miss you too much. You and Sam both."

Dean didn't know what to say. Aside from Sam and occasionally Bobby, no one ever said anything like that to him before. He was never comfortable in these warm-hearted, emotional situations, mainly because John Winchester's training had all but knocked it out of him.

"Hey now, no chick flick moments," he warned, staring up at the stars again. He sensed Cas' probing stare for a moment longer, and then Cas did the same, though Dean could swear, out of the corner of his eye, there was the tiniest flicker of a smile on the angel's lips.

…..

 _ **A/N: You know, when I was watching seasons 4 and 5, I wondered whether Cas was homesick. Especially since that was the first time he's ever been cut-off from Heaven. I hope everyone enjoyed reading. Also, I'd like to thank Emma Winchester 424 and I-Heart-Star-Trek for their kind and supportive reviews. (-;**_


	16. Angels and Demons

_**A/N: Hello there, kind readers. So, a warning straight away: this one-shot was entirely inspired by the most recent promo for 11x22, so obvious spoilers for anyone who is not caught up on the latest episodes. Once I saw the promo, this demanded to be written, especially since it looks like angels and demons will be working together to stop Amara.**_

 _ **I hope everyone enjoys this one-shot.**_

 _ **Angels and Demons**_

 _This was a bad idea,_ Dean realized as he and Sam took their seats in the library of the bunker and watched a long line of angels and demons alike pour in by the dozens. It was a good thing they had the bunker to call home instead of a crappy motel, or they might not have had room to fit everyone. _Maybe it's not the stupidest plan we ever had, but boy, does it come close._

Technically, it was Sam's plan, so he wasn't entirely to blame for it. He just agreed to go along with it. Sam had taken Metatron a little too seriously when the dick suggested they needed all the help they could get when it came to taking down Amara. If this worked, which was a big if, then angels and demons would be fighting on the same team, fighting alongside God, for the first time since…ever.

If.

It was like the high school cafeteria all over again, only instead of jocks, nerds, and cheerleaders, the room was divided into two separate entities. Angels gathered on one end of the room, the demons on the other end. In the middle huddled Sam, Dean, Chuck, Crowley, and Lucifer, all of them wearing matching expressions of uncertainty.

Well, most of them. Chuck seemed pretty resigned already that this plan wouldn't work and spent all of his precious concentration on licking a vanilla-chocolate ice cream cone.

"You know, even I have to admit that this is one of the greatest creations you guys have ever come up with," Chuck said, lapping up the chocolate from his lip. Dean shook his head. It was strange enough to have found God, even stranger to learn that he was as much of a dick as his angels and had more concern for hot showers and cat videos than the fate of humanity. Dean wondered what the punishment was for knocking some sense into him.

"So you don't mind the likes of _him_ ruling the world, but everyone and their mother questions my authority as the King of Hell?" Crowley said, pointing across the table at Chuck. The ice cream licking stopped long enough for Chuck to give Crowley a sour look and Crowley shrank in his seat.

"It's not like we have much of a choice. You can't exactly impeach or execute God," Sam said. Chuck's gaze swiveled to him with a betrayed look. "No offense."

"Just because you say that doesn't make it any less offensive, Sam," Chuck pointed out. Sam bowed his head shamefully. _Way to go, dick,_ Dean thought bitterly. _Now we'll be stuck with Sam's puppy eyes all evening._ "I heard that, Dean. I hear everything, remember?"

"Heard what?" Sam inquired, his head shooting up.

"Nothing, Sammy."

The group fell into an uncomfortable silence as more angels and demons filed into the room, sitting as far away from each other as humanly possible. Some halted in their tracks and bumped into each other when they spotted Lucifer, who wiggled his fingers in a too-friendly wave, their nemeses, and someone they mistook for the human Chuck Shurley.

"Does anyone else feel awkward, or is it just me?" Lucifer said, raising his hand. No one else joined him and after a moment he let his hand fall back down to his side. "You guys are no fun."

"Not according to my one hundred subscribers on YouTube," Chuck said, slurping up the curly tip of his ice cream cone. An angry buzz filled the room as the angels and demons found it impossible to ignore each other for very long.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"What are _they_ doing here?"

"Are we being Punk'd?"

"We don't understand that reference." Sam and Dean exchanged hesitant glances. This plan was a shoddy one at best, but it was now or never.

"Showtime," Dean murmured to his brother. Together, he and Sam stood from their seats to address the obnoxious, powerful beings crammed into their library. At first, Sam tried the polite way to gain their attention, clearing his throat, smiling like an idiot, and raising his hand. When that didn't work fast enough, Dean stuck his fingers into his mouth and whistled sharply. Every head turned in their direction. "Alright, Sammy, you're up."

"Why do I have to speak first?"

"Because I'm the oldest."

"That's not fair. We could play rock-paper-scissors for it."

"You always win rock-paper-scissors."

"Exactly."

"One of you better speak before I do it for you. And believe me, you won't like my form of puppetry," Crowley hissed. "Morons." Granted, his threat was an empty one since both Sam and Dean had anti-possession tattoos, but they did stop bickering. Sam cleared his throat again.

"Um, hi there," Sam said, putting on that goofy smile again. Dean rolled his eyes. Sometimes it was easy to forget that his little brother was a fearsome hunter when he acted so nice. "You're probably all wondering what you're doing here. Together. In the same room."

"Thank you, Sam, for stating the obvious," Crowley intercepted. He kicked his feet up on the table and folded his hands over his chest to see how this chaos would pan out. Dean shoved Crowley's feet down.

"I thought I said not a peep from you," he warned. "Or you can sit by yourself in the corner with the Devil's Trap." Nevertheless, Crowley had a point. They wouldn't get anywhere fast if Sam kept up with the niceties. "I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but you all enlisted in the same army." The demons and angels glared spitefully at each other. "First things first: the elephant in the room." Dean motioned to Chuck, but he was ignored in favor of biting into the waffle cone.

 _Crunch, crunch, crunch—_

"Chuck? That's your cue to stand up," Sam said, nudging his leg lightly. Chuck sighed loudly and popped the last chunk of his cone into his mouth. He stood up and climbed onto his chair so everyone had to stare up at him. "Not really what I meant."

"I see where I get my narcissism from," Lucifer stated, earning a severe look from his Father. "It's a compliment, Daddy Dearest."

"Anyway," Dean continued, "in case any of you were wondering, this is not little-known author Chuck Shurley—"

"Little-known?" Chuck interrupted. Dean clamped his lips together to swallow his frustration. _Here we go._ "I'll have you know that I sold over thirty copies of my books. Which books were those again? Oh, right. The Winchester Gospels." As if they needed reminding that people like Becky Rosen obsessed over the written form of their lives. It reminded Dean of the time they stepped into an alternate universe to learn that their lives had been made into a television show.

"Thirty…as in thirty thousand?" Crowley inquired, sounding like he couldn't believe it.

"No. Thirty as in…thirty," Chuck admitted.

" _Anyway_ ," Dean repeated, fighting for control of the situation. "God, everyone. Everyone, God."

"Call me Chuck," he insisted with a half-bow. Immediately, the angels fell to their knees. The demons, however, were skeptical.

"How do you know that's really God?" One demon sneered. "Do you know how many egotistical humans go around claiming—" Chuck snapped his fingers and an incredible white light flooded the room. Sam and Dean shielded their eyes. When the light cleared, the demon had been reduced to a pillar of black dust. Crowley swallowed nervously. The angels gazed up at Chuck in awe. Lucifer did a slow clap.

If it weren't for the wards and Devil Traps all over the place, the demons might have already smoked out. All they could do was retreat into the furthest corner of the room and cower.

 _Show-off,_ Dean thought, wondering who was supposed to clean that up.

"Chuck, I think you can sit down now," Sam suggested.

"Excuse you, Sam," Chuck retorted, staring down at him. "I happen to be the creator of the universe. I shall sit when I feel like it."

"Sorry." There was a long pause as Chuck towered over them on his chair. Dean hoped Chuck wasn't just going to stand there all through the meeting.

"I'm sitting down now," he announced, resuming his seat.

"Did I mention He's quite the narrator?" Lucifer said, examining his nails. Or, rather, Cas' nails.

"That reminds me, here's the other elephant in the room. Everyone, Luci. Luci, everyone." Aside from the hacked name, Lucifer appeared miffed about not being asked to stand up for his introduction. The way Dean saw it, his ego was already way too big for that room. If they asked him to stand, he'd probably swing from the chandelier.

"I'm confused," one demon spoke up. "I thought that was the angel Castiel."

Dean winced and he struggled not to glance at Lucifer. Every time he looked at him, it was a bitter reminder that he was missing one of his brothers. _Cas should be here fighting with us,_ he thought, not for the first time. _He's been searching for God—or Chuck—longer than any of us._

"Technically? He's both," Sam offered. "Cas is…you know…inside him." Dean really wished there was a better way to phrase that, one that didn't sound so suggestive.

"Let me tell you a story," Lucifer said, leaning forward to meet everyone's eyes. "Once upon a time, there was a little, naïve, socially awkward, badly-dressed—"

"They get it," Dean snapped. Sam placed a hand on his shoulder in caution.

"—angel named Castiel. Then there was me." Lucifer paused. "The end."

"That story was way too short and straight to the point. I liked it," Chuck said with a nod to his favorite child. Lucifer sat back and grinned like the Cheshire cat, proud to have won his Father's approval. Dean fought hard not to recognize himself in Lucifer when it came to fathers.

"Most of you already know us. I'm Sam Winchester and that's my brother, Dean." No one cheered for them.

"Yeah, don't confuse us. We don't like that," Dean added, shooting a warning glare around the room.

"Don't see how that's possible," Crowley muttered. "One of you is the Jolly Green Giant and the other is Joe Pesci."

"Hey!" Sam and Dean exclaimed at the same time. Dean rubbed his forehead, a headache already forming. Not only had it been a long week already, but it had been a long couple of months. He could really use a beer. "Anyone else in need of an introduction or can we get on with it?"

One of the angels stood up and straightened a red bowtie.

"He-hem. My name is—"

"Save it, halo," Dean cut him off, much to the angel's astonishment. "It was a rhetorical question. Obviously you're not one of the big guys. My guess is, you worked in a crappy cubicle and you got promoted after the rest of your brothers died. Congratulations. As far as I'm concerned, you're angel number 23 until all of this is over." The angel opened his mouth and closed it. He sat back down and pouted.

"That wasn't very nice, Dean," Chuck pointed out.

"Someone's gotta do it, or we'll be here all week." He turned to scrutinize the cluster of angels and demons again. _What I wouldn't give right now for white sand beaches and a pair of hot blondes that score an 11 on my scale of 1 to 10._ "How about some ground rules? One: no slaughtering each other. At least save it for after we ice Amara. Two: no snapping your fingers, _Luci_."

"Not even in a sassy Z-formation?" Lucifer posed his fingers to snap. Both angels and demons ducked under the table for cover. Dean pointed a threatening finger at him.

"Do it, I dare you. See how fast I fry your wings extra crispy and serve them up as a complimentary dinner." It was like watching a tennis match: everyone glanced back and forth between Dean and Lucifer, who still contemplated snapping his fingers. Sam's eyes widened.

"Yeah, he's not joking," he said. _Thanks for the backup, Sammy,_ Dean thought sarcastically. At last, Lucifer lowered his fingers.

"I would like it to be known that I am not snapping my fingers simply because I don't feel like it. Not because you told me not to."

"Duly noted," Sam said.

"Narcissist," Dean mumbled.

"Ass monkey," Lucifer shot back. Dean prepared to lunge over the table at him, but Sam held him back. His nerves were fried and his patience long since wasted; the slightest remark from Lucifer in Cas' body could set him off. Sam patted his shoulder comfortingly as he regained his control while Lucifer snickered.

"We should get to the reason we're here," Sam said, gazing around at the angels and demons in front of him. "By now, all of you have heard about the Darkness, Amara, and some of you have even seen what she is capable of. The truth is, she's not just the Darkness personified. She's God's sister, she's pissed off, and we need all the help we can get to take her down once and for all."

The room was silent as both groups pondered over it. Sam was really laying the puppy eyes on thick, and Dean thought it might actually work to convince them.

"What's in it for us?" the demons asked. They looked to their king for answers and support, but he lounged in his chair, arms folded over his chest. He already informed the Winchesters that he would go along with this plan, but that was because he thought he could still have a decent strike at Lucifer after this was said and done.

"Let's put it this way," Dean said, raising his voice. "This is bigger than you, me, all of us. Humans, angels, demons, it doesn't matter anymore. If Amara wins, she will destroy this world, Heaven, and Hell. Everything we know will be gone and anyone who stands in her way will be toast. You know we wouldn't be asking if there was any other way. So help us or die. Which one is it?"

The angels and demons bent their heads close in their little groups and discussed it in hushed tones. Sam and Dean shared impatient looks. The angels were the first to turn back around with their answer in mind, though Sam and Dean had already predicted the angels would be on board with this plan. It was the demons that were the wild cards.

"We're in," the angels and demons spoke at the same time, and then glared at each other some more. Dean's eyebrows rose. _I think that's the first time they agreed on anything._ "Shouldn't someone make a speech if we're heading into war?"

They all looked at Chuck. He was the big man, after all.

"Oh, no. Not me," he said, waving the thought aside. "I'm not good at speeches. That's why I have a few chosen humans on earth to make them for me. Like Abraham Lincoln. And the Joker." The room fell into silence again and no one volunteered to make a worthy speech. Well, that wasn't entirely true; Lucifer raised his hand, but everyone assumed the speech would be about himself, so they ignored him.

"Dean is excellent at making speeches," Sam blurted out. Dean spun around to stare at his brother in open-mouthed horror. He pulled Sam away from the table and the onlookers.

"What the hell, Sam?" he whispered angrily.

"Come on, Dean. They obviously need some kind of leader to guide them through this and Chuck doesn't exactly fit the bill lately. Just use a speech from a movie." Easier said than done, especially when his brother insisted on putting him in the spotlight without warning.

"What speech would work here?"

"I don't know. You're a treasure trove of pop culture. You'll figure something out." Dean furrowed his brows and gave his brother a furious look. _God, I hate you right now,_ he thought in the midst of his anger, even if he didn't mean it.

"I heard that, too, Dean," Chuck declared from behind them.

"Heard _what_?" Sam asked.

" _Nothing,_ Sammy. He's crazy and hearing things." He made a circular motion next to his temple. Chuck twisted around in his chair, but Dean pretended not to notice. He closed his eyes and searched his brain for something smart to say to these powerful beings. Sam tapped his foot. "I'm thinking, Sam. Give me a minute." To his supreme annoyance, Lucifer hummed the _Jeopardy_ theme. "I know I'm going to regret this."

"I have faith in you, Dean," Sam assured him as they returned to their previous seats. Only Dean remained standing, wringing his sweaty hands together like a kid giving a book report at school.

"That makes one of us," he said nervously. What was he supposed to say to a bunch of angels and demons that didn't know their way up or down? Nonetheless, he began to recite the only other speech he had memorized in his youth, besides the one from _Braveheart._ "Listen up. I have a dream, that one day my—"

"Dean? Please tell me you're not reciting from Martin Luther King, Jr.?" Sam broke in, giving his brother one of his _you've-got-to-be-joking_ looks.

"It's either this or _Braveheart,_ Sammy." The way Sam's head fell into his hand all but confirmed the fact that he wished for neither. _Screw this,_ Dean thought. "Forget the speech. You get the point. The only reason you idiots hate each other is because you're angels and demons, and you come from opposite ends of the universe. Get off your high horses for a minute. Pretty soon, there'll be no Heaven or Hell to dominate, no angels or demons to fight. Nada. We need to come together if we want to stand a chance at beating this thing. And if there's one thing the Winchesters do best, it's to go down swinging. So I say we go out there, hit her with everything we've got, and kick her ass back to where she came from. There's only one question that matters: are you in or out?"

The angels and demons exchanged wary looks. For a second, Dean was afraid their courage had left them and they would back out.

"In," they decided in unison, though they didn't sound too convincing.

"I can't hear you, maggots," Dean roared. Sam shook his head, probably wondering how his brother had such gall to fling insults at the most powerful beings in the universe. He was the one who had appointed Dean as the ringleader of this circus, and he was just playing the role.

" _In_!" the angels and demons exclaimed in exasperation. Only Dean didn't notice how tired they were of his so-called speech, instead pumping his fist into the air.

"That's more like it. Class is dismissed. We'll call you when we really need you," Dean said. The angels and demons fled much faster than they came in, not wanting to spend another moment in close proximity. Crowley appeared reluctant to return to the gloomy depths of Hell, even though he started playing with his phone during the meeting. Chuck made an offhand comment about a hot shower, which meant they wouldn't see him for a few hours, at least.

"You really think this plan is going to go smoothly?" Sam whispered to Dean. It was his plan, not Dean's, but even Sam was starting to have doubts.

"What, with the angels and demons playing on the same team? Absolutely not." If all else failed, at least they could say they tried.

….

 _ **A/N: By the way, what do you think about Chuck's return? I had already predicted it since seeing the end of season 5, but it's nice to finally have confirmation. Also, many thanks to those that reviewed; your support means the world to me.**_

 _ **I-Heart-Star-Trek: You're right; Dean has such a lousy way of dealing with emotional situations because he doesn't know how to express his emotions that well, but I guess that comes with the hard life of a hunter. It also doesn't help that he had John Winchester as a father, treating him like a soldier for almost his entire life. I'm glad you enjoyed the one-shot, and I'm always happy to give a shout-out for your kind reviews!**_

 _ **Deadone1013: True, they had so much going on with the Apocalypse that no one ever stopped to consider any of the smaller details, like Cas being so far away from home. And I don't even know if Cas really understands the emotion of homesickness, being an angel, but he has to associate Heaven with the idea of home, right? That's where his real family is and that's where he's been for most of his existence before meeting the Winchesters. Then again maybe that's also my human instinct overthinking these things. (-;**_

 _ **Emma Winchester 424: Thank you so much for reading. It makes me happy to hear that you enjoyed it and that you like my writing. Hopefully I keep you entertained in the future, too.**_


	17. Lollipop

_**Warning: spoiler for S11. Just in case.**_

 _ **Lollipop**_

 _How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Roll pop? The world may never know._

It was the third time the commercial played in the past hour, but still Cas absorbed every second of it in endless fascination. That old owl was certainly an unreliable source—he only counted to three before biting clean through the lollipop. Cas was far from being an expert, but he was fairly certain that biting was cheating.

It was like some divine mission that had been laid at his feet. Why else would the commercial play so often in the same hour? He was determined to locate an answer to the conundrum.

The world must know. If humans lacked the means to solve this tantalizing mystery, then he would.

Picking up his cell phone—the most movement he accomplished that day since turning on the television—he dialed Dean's number. He had been aware of his surroundings enough to faintly hear Dean from the library telling Sam that he was going to the store. Probably to satisfy his pie cravings, the glutton. He had heard the rumble of the Impala outside, but it had been quiet since then. Dean had not yet returned.

Dean answered on the third ring, just as Cas mentally prepared to leave one of those awkward messages after the beep.

"Already finished watching your soaps for the day?" Cas glanced around the room, but didn't see anything remotely resembling soap. There was a deep sigh on the other end. "The _television_ , Cas. Anything good on or are you calling to ask me what I'm wearing?"

Cas stared at the phone like it had magically transformed into a snail in his hand. Half the time, Dean might as well have been speaking another language to him. Unfortunately, there was no such thing as an English-to-Winchester dictionary.

"As a matter of fact, Dean, that's why I'm calling," he confirmed. He flicked through the channels with the magic black box the boys always fought over.

"You're calling to ask me what I'm wearing?" Dean exclaimed.

"Why would I—? No, Dean. Pay attention. I was referring to the former option. I did see something interesting on television. Are you still shopping for pie?"

"You know, I shop for other things besides pie. Beer, magazines, toilet paper…." Dean's voice trailed off. Cas waited patiently. "Yes, Cas, I'm still at the store."

"Excellent. I require Tootsie Roll pops. Immediately." He flipped another channel and there was the same commercial again, demanding him to solve that mysterious riddle: _How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Roll pop? The world may never know._

In his ear, Dean offered a dry laugh.

"You _require_ Tootsie Roll pops? Since when? And would it kill you to ask nicely?" Cas sat upright in bed, his lips forming a tight, irritated line.

"Did _you_ ask nicely when I dragged your blackened, broken soul from the darkest depths of Hell?" he argued, his voice rising in his passion. There was nothing but air on the other end. If he didn't hear Dean breathing so heavily, he would have thought he hung up.

"I didn't? Oh, yeah, that's right. I _didn't_ , because I was too busy being _tortured_ for what felt like _thirty_ _years_. I'd buy you a Hallmark card, but I doubt they have one that says _thank you for saving my ass from Hell,_ " he shot back sarcastically. Cas rose from the bed and paced in slow, short steps across the room.

"Exactly. You were tortured and I was the one who eased your suffering by carrying your wounded, gluttonous form out of Hell. Remember, I was the one that—"

"—gripped me tight and raised me from perdition," Dean recited in a bored voice. Cas paused mid-stride and glared at the phone in his hand. "Yeah, I know. Funny; you use that line a lot when you want something."

"Is it working?"

"Not this time," Dean answered. Sometimes the Winchesters could be as stubborn as the old donkey that carried the Virgin Mary to Bethlehem. "If you want Tootsie Roll pops so badly, then why don't you get your feathery ass out of bed and come get them?"

Cas' hand squeezed the phone.

"Technically, I am out of bed," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Hallelujah! That's a real divine miracle right there! Now turn my water into wine."

"Only Jesus Christ could accomplish such a feat. You would know that, Dean, if you bothered to open the Bible once in a while."

"Just because I know how to recognize a unicorn doesn't mean it's real."

"Are you comparing Jesus Christ, our Savior, to a _unicorn_?"

"Will I be smited if I say yes?" _Smote,_ Cas corrected in his head, all the while pinching the bridge of his nose. Dean was the type who only believed in something if he saw it with his own two eyes. He didn't even have faith that angels existed until the day they first met, much less the biblical figure of Jesus Christ. His lack of faith was often infuriating. "You still have a problem, feather-brain. You're there and the Tootsie Rolls you want are here."

In the background, he could hear the crinkling of some kind of bag.

"You know I can no longer teleport," Cas pointed out, a fact which frustrated him to no end. It took him a long time to get used to the confinement of cars.

"Not my problem," Dean replied with no sympathy. "Make like the rest of us humans and drive."

"Why would I drive when you're already there? Besides, I can't go out there. I…I lost my keys," he objected, even as his blue eyes landed on the keys on his nightstand. He hadn't been himself since Rowena cursed him with her dark magic. It was much safer to stay inside, curled up in a warm bed and watching Netflix.

"You suck at lying, Cas," Dean said. Being his best friend and brother had its disadvantages. Like Dean being able to see right through him. "You're sitting in front of that TV and you don't want to move." Cas had reached the end of his rope. It was time to bring out the big guns, so to speak.

"Who rebelled against Heaven and all of its angels in your name? Who branded your ribs with Enochian sigils so you can avoid angelic detection? Who killed his fellow angels, saved your life countless times, and even died for you on more than one occasion? Who—?"

"Alright, alright! I'll get your damn Tootsie Roll pops!" Dean relented.

"Thank you, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah. Son of a bitch," Dean muttered under his breath before he hung up. Cas felt satisfied enough to settle down on the bed again and wait for Dean's return. He kicked his feet up and flipped through the channels again, only to be faced with that same commercial.

 _How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Roll pop?_

"We shall see, Mr. Owl," Cas declared.

…..

"Dude, what took you so long?" Sam asked when Dean finally strolled through the door. Dean stomped down the stairs with several shopping bags slung over his arms. Without a word, he dropped the bags on the table and pulled out a party-size bag of Tootsie Roll pops. "I thought you swore never to eat another lollipop after you figured out 50 Cent's "Candy Shoppe" wasn't actually about candy."

"They're not for me. They're for the lazy-ass angel we're living with," he barked, carrying the bag of Tootsie Roll pops with him down the hall. Sam followed on his heels.

"I thought Gabriel was the only angel with a taste for candy," Sam noted. Neither of them had seen Cas prefer eating anything as an angel. Dean shrugged.

"Go figure. This time, Cas wouldn't take no for an answer." He stopped in front of Cas' bedroom door and pounded his fist on it, loud enough to wake the dead.

"Room service," Dean called through the door. A muffled reply reached their ears: "Come in."

Dean shoved open the door. They found Cas stretched out on his bed, sans trench coat, his blue eyes glued to the television. Playing across the screen was a cartoon of Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner. Unlike normal people, who laughed at the coyote's pitiful attempts to catch the bird, Cas studied it like it was a mathematical equation.

"You would think this coyote would eventually learn that he is incapable of catching that roadrunner," he commented.

"Yeah, that's the entertaining part, Cas. No matter how hard he tries, he always fails. It's supposed to be funny," Sam explained. Cas stared at him, bewildered.

"One should not throw stones in glass houses," the angel replied, and Sam's polite smile faltered.

" _Glass House_. I remember that movie. I always wanted one of those," Dean said, smiling fondly at the memory. Cas' confused expression remained fixed on his face while Sam shook his head, patting his brother on the back for his input. Dean tossed the bag of candy to Cas. "Here are your lollipops, Your Lazy Holiness."

"I've never encountered a human bold enough to call an angel of the Lord lazy," Cas protested.

"Yeah? Well, I've never met an angel of the Lord that spends his days kicking his feet up in bed and watching Netflix. The only miracle you're performing right now is pressing a button on that remote," Dean countered.

Before Cas could grab the remote, Dean snatched it away and switched off the television. With a scowl, Cas sat upright in bed and accepted the bag of Tootsie Roll pops. He plucked a chocolate lollipop from the bag and unwrapped it meticulously.

"Now my experiment can begin," he announced, memorizing the lollipop in his hand like it was a formidable foe. Sam and Dean exchanged strange looks.

"Experiment?" Sam repeated. As usual, they didn't receive a straight answer from Cas, whose full concentration was reserved for the lollipop. They leaned against the wall and observed the angel as he began to lick away at it. Trying something new was wondrous enough when it came to Cas; it was even more puzzling when he counted every lick.

"One— _lick_ —two— _lick—_ three— _lick—_ "

"Cas? What are you doing?" Sam interrupted. Dean's mouth hung open and he seemed incapable of speech as he stared at Cas. His experiment put on hold, Cas sighed impatiently.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sam and Dean both folded their arms and waited to be let in on the secret. "I have seen that commercial multiple times today. Seventeen times, to be exact. It's like they repeat it on purpose to torment their audience. That commercial presented to me a desperate challenge that demanded to be solved: how many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Roll pop? They claim the world will never know, but clearly that commercial is a cry for help. As an angel of the Lord, I cannot stand by and deny the world such knowledge."

He went back to licking the lollipop.

"—four— _lick—_ five— _lick—_ six— _lick—"_

"Cas, you don't actually have to—" Sam started to object, but Dean held up his hand, never taking his eyes from Cas.

"No, no, Sammy, let's see if he figures it out." Sam rolled his eyes.

"Dean? You're watching another man lick his lollipop." Dean suddenly became serious and stalked out of the room with Sam following behind, humming 50 Cent's "Candy Shoppe."

"C'mon, Sam, why do you have to make it weird?" Behind them, Cas did not break his concentration. He went on licking the lollipop like his life depended on it.

"—seven— _lick_ —eight— _lick—_ nine— _lick—_ ten— _lick—_ "

….

 _ **A/N: I don't know about you, but it's always entertaining to watch Cas react to things that we humans take for granted. Expect more of that to come. (-; To Emma Winchester 424: Thank you so much for your kind review! I always enjoy adding a bit of humor into my one-shots; it especially makes them more fun to write.**_

 _ **Also, is anyone prepared to watch the Season 11 finale next week? If so, what are your predictions, out of curiosity? My only hope is that we get Cas back once and for all. It's hard to believe the finale is already here, but I'll be looking forward to S12! And of course I'll be writing these one-shots during the wait.**_


	18. Measure

_**Measure**_

Dean could never put his finger on the exact moment it happened, but with every passing year, his little brother continued to look up to him.

The way Sam often looked at him these days was the same way he looked up to their father: someone he loved more than anything, someone who held all the answers, someone who could protect him from all the monsters lurking in the shadows of the night. It became clear that Sam wanted to be like his brother in every way, like when he played that annoying game "Shadow" for hours on end, long after Dean begged him to quit it. Then there was the fact that only Dean could get Sam to brush his teeth, eat all his food, and be tucked into bed. Not his father, who was gone on another case every time Dean turned around.

He remembered, back before their mother died, how his parents would make him stand up straight against the wall, his back stiff against the doorframe, heels of his feet pushed back, while his mom measured his height. She would mark it off with a stub of a pencil and write his name beside it for everyone to see. Of course, that was before Sam made it out of his crib days, and they had moved on from their home in Lawrence, Kansas almost immediately after their mom died. To think that Dean's name was still scratched into that doorframe, left behind as a remnant of the lives that once found sanctuary there.

When Sam was four years old, Dean got it in his head to give him the same good memory that he cherished. After all, he was a growing boy, and he was growing _fast._

"Stand up straight, Sammy. Back against the wall. Heels back, too. There you go. Now stay still and I'll measure you. To see how tall you are." Sam did as his big brother requested, standing rigid as a ruler against the cracked doorframe of their motel room's bathroom. Dean carefully marked a line at the top of Sam's head. "You can move now. See how big you are?"

Dean etched Sam's name into the wood, just as Mom would have done. Sam's delicate finger traced the letters of his name, his lips forming a round _O_. His face glowed brightly like the angel that once adorned the top of their Christmas tree back home. It was times like these that a smile found its way to his lips, too.

"Whoa..." Sam murmured in awe, as if he could not believe he was really that tall. Compared to Dean, however, he was a small fry. "How big are _you_ , Dean?"

Dean's smile slipped a little. There was no mark with his name next to it, like there had been before, and Dad didn't seem to have time for such trivial details anymore. Sighing, he put his back against the wall and scribbled a line above his own head. Then he stepped aside and held a finger over the two lines on the doorframe, so Sam could see the difference. They were practically miles apart; Sam had to jump to slap Dean's mark.

" _That's_ how big. See? You have a long way to go until you reach me, shrimp."

"I am _not_ a shrimp!" Sam protested, his face scrunching up like he might cry. "One day, I'll be as big as you!" Dean rolled his eyes.

"Sure you will, _shrimp_." Sam stuck out his tongue. Suddenly, Dean got an idea, something that would cheer up his brother. He knelt down next to Sam. "Here, climb up on my shoulders."

Sam loved piggyback rides and Dean really didn't mind it much since it always seemed to make Sam happy. Without hesitation, Sam jumped on his shoulders. Dean stood, teetering slightly to the left before catching his balance. "Look, Sammy! Look how big we are when we're together." He couldn't see it, but he heard Sam giggle above him and that was enough.

"So big," Sam cried out, and used the pencil to draw a crooked line on the doorframe, much higher than even Dean's mark. "Do you think we're taller than Dad?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Do you think we can crush all the monsters together?"

At the mention of monsters, Dean remembered where they were, in a shabby motel room waiting for Dad to come back from a hunt. He remembered that Mom was dead and Dad was out there hunting what killed her. Hunting real monsters that lived in the darkest shadows of their nightmares and preyed on good people like them. But Sam was still young, and the only monsters he knew were the ones he imagined under his bed. Dean planned to keep it that way for as long as possible, maybe even forever.

So he did what he always did-he played the brave big brother with one foot in the darkness and let Sam enjoy the light.

"You know what, Sammy? I think we can."

...

It had been a long time since they had called any physical place home, but the bunker that once belonged to the Men of Letters was definitely in the running.

Sam had no memory of the house in Lawrence, Kansas that Dean once thought of as his home, and ever since leaving Stanford to hit the road with his brother, it had been one crappy motel after another. Here, in this impressive bunker, there was safety and comfort for once. A stable roof over their heads without leaks or water damage or flickering lights. There was an entire library of knowledge Sam was itching to get his fingers on. He and Dean had their own bedrooms, and he couldn't remember the last time that happened. There was a garage to keep the Impala warm at night, a kitchen where they could cook real meals, and hell, there was hot water in the shower. No noisy, bed-thumping neighbors, no need to check in with fake names with obvious classic rock references, no packing up and moving from place to place. Somewhere they could return to at the end of a hunt and unload the weight from their shoulders.

It was the closest thing Sam had ever known to a home, short of his time spent with Jessica at Stanford.

And yet….

Slowly but surely, they were filling in the missing pieces. There were no family photos around the bunker, except for the small one of Mom that Dean kept in his bedroom. There was no time to settle down to enjoy each other's company without worrying about the next thing that could go wrong. Then there was the pale doorframe in the kitchen that Sam found himself studying from time to time, and a faint memory of standing on his brother's shoulders to measure their height rose to the surface of his mind. That had been in one of the dozens of crappy motels, courtesy of Dad's obsession with tracking down the demon that had killed Mom.

"Sam?" He tilted his head, still picturing the scribbled lines that marked their heights in a motel room that, like the house in Lawrence, they would never see again. This place was more of a home than all of those motels combined, and he would bet every cent to his name that he was finally bigger than-"Earth to Sam! Come in, Sammy! Do you read?"

Pain rocketed along Sam's leg as Dean kicked it under the table. Sam snapped back to reality. He was sitting in the bunker's kitchen, devouring Dean's amazingly satisfying cooking in the form of a fresh hamburger.

"What?" he muttered lamely. Usually he wasn't the type to zone out like that; usually it was Dean on account of some hot chick. Only now Dean was the one that was focused, sitting opposite him at the table and already licking the grease off his fingers from his hamburger.

"Welcome back, Raven Symone. I was trying to get your opinion on something," he grumbled, his voice clipped with annoyance.

"Remind me what that was again?" Dean groaned.

"Look, we have so many rooms in this place. What's the harm in turning one into a sauna-slash-club-slash-swimming pool? Think about it." _Now I remember why I zoned out in the first place,_ Sam thought, stifling a yawn. He tended to grow bored when Dean talked about his music, women, and, he couldn't stress this part enough, his sex life.

"So, in other words, a place you can take your one-night stands?"

"I didn't say that."

"You were thinking it." Dean opened his mouth and closed it again with a shrug.

"Anyway, what were you thinking so hard about? You looked like you were channeling Drew Barrymore trying to set that wall on fire with your mind."

"Do you remember that one time when we were kids...?"

"Oh, here we go," Dean interrupted, leaning back in his chair. "Another memory test. Previously on _Supernatural.._."

"...and you measured my height?" Sam finished.

All laughing matters aside, Dean rocked backward in his chair, brow furrowed. Like a child, he wouldn't learn about bad habits until he fell off that chair and cracked his head open. Dean's green eyes glazed over as his mind traveled back in time to retrieve the memory. He nodded slowly, almost mournfully, recalling those simpler days before they ever became real hunters, back when they still had Dad to chase down the monsters, back when there was still a shred of childish innocence in both of them.

"Yeah, I remember. It was in some crappy motel while Dad was out hunting...whatever he was hunting that day. I remember he made the two of us scrub that doorframe until it shined like a new penny because we couldn't leave any evidence behind...and I remember you telling me that you were going to be bigger than me one day."

"Let's see if I am." Sam got one of those goofy, troublesome looks and jumped up from his seat, heading for the doorframe he had been staring at a moment ago. Dean hung his head and sighed.

"I'll save us both some time-you _are_ bigger than me. There, satisfied? That's the only time I'll say that, by the way." He looked at Sam over his shoulder, but Sam was already standing proudly with his back pressed to the doorframe. Dean slouched in his chair, not at all eager to give in to Sam's spontaneous request, and Sam showed no signs of backing down.

"Alright, fine. I'm bigger than you. I want to see how much."

Dean hated everything about the idea. He hated the smugness on Sam's face as he marked his height, he hated having to get up from the comfort of his chair, and he hated giving Sam something to tease him about.

"You're really not giving this up? You're gonna make me get up from this chair and— _oh, shit!"_ Dean rocked back too far and his arms flailed as the chair toppled with a loud _crash!_ He jumped up and dusted himself off. "I'm good." Dean cursed again, limped over to Sam, and gestured for him to push out of the way before he changed his mind.

"Since you're so hell-bent on humiliating me," Dean said, standing as tall as he could against the doorframe. He even tried getting away with pushing his body higher on his tiptoes, but Sam put his hand on his shoulder, anchoring him down to the earth.

It only took Sam two seconds to scratch a line above Dean's head, but the humility of it all wasn't nearly over as Dean stepped aside to let Sam gloat over the distance between his thumb and forefinger. Three inches, but to Dean, it was a few inches more than he'd like.

"Who knew I would be bigger than you?" Sam taunted him, holding those fingers steady in front of Dean's face, in case he missed it the first time. Dean slapped his hand away.

"Who knew you could rub it in so much? Dick." Sam smirked. "Yeah, yeah, okay. You win, Sammy. _Now_ are you happy?" Deep down, Sam knew Dean would never have done this for any other person in the world. He gave the doorframe another thoughtful look, which meant trouble for Dean.

"Remember when I stood on top of your shoulders and we measured how big we were _together_? I wonder how tall we'd be now." That smug look transformed into a full-blown mischievous smile that reminded Dean too much of the Grinch. He snorted and backed off.

"Forget it, Godzilla. There is no way I'm putting you on my shoulders."

He began to turn away, heading back to the table where his beer and comfortable chair waited, but Sam had other plans. Before Dean even knew what was happening, he was lifted up into the air with powerful hands and planted on Sam's shoulders. It caught him off guard, his eyes flown open wide, and he clung to Sam's head for dear life to keep from falling. He might as well have been dangling off the side of the Empire State Building, the way he fumbled over Sam's shoulders.

"Sam, what the hell?!"

"Trust me," Sam said, his voice strained from Dean's weight and what Dean suspected was a weak attempt at a laugh. Sam staggered on his feet to the doorframe, swaying and tilting like a drunk, with Dean yelping each time he thought they would fall over. Once was enough for the day. He wrested Sam's long hair in his hands, tugging and steering him the right way. "Ow! _Ow!_ Dean! Quit pulling my hair!"

"Keep true! Go straight! Get me off this ride... _Ow_!" They collided into the doorframe and Dean lunged forward, knocking his head into it. Already he could feel a bump forming on his forehead. That would hurt in the morning. "Let's get this over with! Give me the pencil!"

"Okay, here...oops! I dropped it."

"Dammit, Sam!" Dean purposefully tugged Sam's hair again. In the midst of their roughhousing, they never heard the quiet steps that neared the kitchen, nor did they notice the curious stare of an onlooker.

"If you two are trying to reach Heaven," Cas spoke up from behind them, "I can assure you there are easier ways." Dean tugged Sam's hair and carefully they turned around to meet Cas' eyes below.

"This isn't what it looks like," Dean protested. Cas tilted his head, the surest sign that he was puzzled by something.

"I don't understand. What is it supposed to look like?"

Sam bent his head back to stare up at Dean, but neither brother had a reasonable answer. It was a long story, and even if they took the time to explain it, there was a good chance Cas would still be confused by the human tradition of measuring oneself for the sheer purpose of gloating. Did angels ever feel the urge to gloat about how big they were in Heaven? A little game of "my wings are bigger than your wings?"

"It was _his_ idea." Dean rapped his knuckles on Sam's head like a squirrel with an acorn. "The short version is that we're trying to see how tall we are...together." That barely cleared up the confusion on Cas' face, just as Dean anticipated. Meanwhile, Sam held out a hand to Cas.

"Hey, maybe we can see how tall the _three_ of us are together! Here, Cas, fly up on top!" Dean got a panicked look while Cas seemed startled by the suggestion.

"Oh, God, do you ever stop?" Dean objected, yanking Sam's long hair again. "I am not going to be stuck between you two like an Oreo!"

"That doesn't sound at all like a comfortable position, Sam," Cas told him doubtfully. To Dean, he asked: "What is an Oreo?"

...

 _ **A/N: For the record, I have no idea where this one-shot came from—it was just one of the many strange ideas in my head that turned into a full one-shot. I would like to take a moment to thank those who reviewed, because your support and encouragement mean the world to me:**_

 _ **Emma Winchester 424: Thank you for the review! I'm glad to hear that it cheered you up after a bad day. There will be plenty more to come.**_

 _ **Jade Johanson: Wow, that's impressive that you managed to count how many licks it took to reach the center of a Tootsie Roll pop. I don't have nearly as much patience to do that; I just bite straight through like the owl in that commercial. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed the one-shot.**_

 _ **Also, did anyone watch the Season 11 finale this week?**_


	19. A Little Taste

_**A Little Taste**_

Even though it had been thirty years ago, Dean could remember most details about the fateful night his mother was murdered in cold blood by the Yellow-Eyed Demon. That was the night their lives changed forever, and not for the better. There had been the uncertainty of fumbling half-awake through the dark house in the witching hour of the night, and the urgent way his father shoved his baby brother into his arms, shouting the first of many orders to come to take his brother outside, where it was safe. He had never known his home to be unsafe before that night.

Always take care of Sammy, no matter what. There had been the heavy weight of his fragile brother in his arms and running as fast as his small legs would allow. He had carried Sam into the nighttime November air, never looking back to see if their father, or anything else, might follow.

Dean had never mentioned it to another living soul—not his father, not even his brother—but the worst part about that night had been the smell. The stomach-churning, gag-inducing stench of smoke, heat, and, though he had not grasped it at the time, their mother's now-lifeless body charred on the ceiling. It was enough to make him stop eating for three days after the fact, even as a growing boy.

Some days, Dean swore he still smelled it, stuck in his nose worse than the medicinal odor in any hospital or the overwhelming sweat that clung to his clothes after working a long case. Not that he ever tried to recall what it smelled like, but certain odors jogged his memory from time to time, whether he liked it or not. For one thing, he could never stand the smell of cooking meat, even if the result was the juiciest, most delicious bacon cheeseburger in the world.

Dean sniffed the air. Not as foul as what he once smelled that night in Lawrence, Kansas, home of the Winchesters, but there was no doubt when it came to placing it: smoke.

He supposed it wasn't a smart idea to blast his music in his earphones too loudly; if any hell was raised, he wouldn't know it until it was right at the foot of his bed. Yet they had settled rather comfortably in that Batcave of a bunker they now called home and it was the safest he had felt since…since that night they lost Mom.

Besides, what was he worrying about smoke when there were sprinklers? As a matter of fact, it was how Sam decided to get Dean out of bed one morning, by holding a lighter beneath those sprinklers and drenching him with cold water, followed by a smug remark about how they might as well hit the road now that he'd already taken a shower.

That was what he got for letting his guard down by degrees ever since they moved in, but, oh, Sam's time was coming. Dean didn't know what kind of payback it would be until the opportunity presented itself.

He inhaled again, deeper this time, catching the acrid scent that infiltrated the air. Definitely something burning.

 _What the hell is he doing now? Destroying evidence of his Twilight craze?_ He smirked, never missing the chance to tease his brother for having actually read those sappy so-called teenage romances. It was one of Sam's mantras that he would never shame a book until he read it, but Dean didn't exactly have to study it cover to cover to know it was no better than published fanfiction. Besides, he'd seen real vampires, the stuff of nightmares that sucked you dry of blood, and they definitely didn't sparkle.

Without slipping off his headphones—it was a crime in his book to interrupt Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody"—he lowered his dog-eared copy of Busty Asian Beauties—

-and locked on to a pair of piercing blue eyes. At once, Dean flopped on his bed, jumping out of his skin, the magazine flying somewhere across the room.

"Dammit, Cas," he growled, flinging away the blaring headphones. That was what he got for shutting out the world for even one blessed moment. Wishful thinking. "You know, you could knock when a man is nose-deep in that kind of reading material."

"I did knock. Three times." He cast his eyes down to the headphones on the bed, where the familiar notes of Queen carried on incoherently.

"Oh. Yeah, well…the fourth time's the charm." _Or be patient enough to wait until I'm done,_ he added in his head. Patience—or lack of it—was always one of Castiel's flaws. Everything was a crisis with that angel. Only now he was doing that _thing_ , where he looked more like a wounded puppy than a man. In a softer tone, Dean asked, "What's up?"

Castiel's brow became deeply lined with his trademark confused expression. First he tilted his head to the side, then back.

"The ceiling, for one thing. Though you cannot see it from here, there's Heaven, for another." Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. _Poor, naïve little angel._

"What do you _need_ , Cas?" he sighed, mildly frustrated in more ways than one.

"You requested pie, did you not?" At the mention of his favorite dessert, Dean hopped up straighter on the bed, his stomach rumbling in demand. Ah, pie. Such a magical word in his book.

"Yeah, about three hours ago."

Technically, he had requested pie for the umpteenth time from Sam. And as always, Sam either ignored the request in favor of more "serious" matters or forgot altogether. It left Dean annoyed and hungry, not a good combination, his taste buds craving the frothy sweetness of pie without ever really knowing when he would get another chance for it. Maybe that was why he savored every creamy drop, like it would be his last.

To spare himself any pity from Castiel, he put on a brave face and waved the thought away.

"Don't worry. I'm over it." For a second, he swore Castiel appeared disappointed, his lips forming a tight line.

"That's a shame, because I've fulfilled your request. I strove to bake one myself. Cooking was one of those human pleasures that I had not yet explored, but which I now find quite…fun."

This took Dean by surprise and he stared up at Castiel in disbelief. When it came to humanity, the celestial being standing before him was practically a baby in a trench coat. Until that moment, Dean wasn't aware that Castiel even knew where their kitchen was or what half the tools in that kitchen did, let alone bake a pie.

He had to ask.

" _You_ baked a _pie_? From scratch?" There was that probing stare again. What part did not compute this time?

"From…flour, eggs, sugar—" Dean waved his hand, signaling him to settle down before he got his trench coat in a bunch.

"I got that. Since when do you know how to cook anything?" The only kind of food Dean had ever seen Castiel prepare since joining them in the bunker was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a three-year-old could figure that out.

"Sam directed me to a program called YouTube. Honestly, I'm not very experienced in the pastime of _tubing_ —"he used those obnoxious air-quotes—"but I found the video quite helpful."

"Okay then. You said pie? Lead the way." He gestured for Cas to guide him from the bedroom, toward the kitchen. Not only was he curious to see what Cas had literally cooked up, but some exercise would do him good after that interrupted session with those Asian beauties.

The closer they got to the kitchen, the stronger that burning smell became. So that was the source—Castiel's cooking. Thankfully, Dean trailed just behind, so he wouldn't offend him by fanning the smell away from his nose. He began to grow anxious about what he might find in that kitchen.

"Please don't mind the smell," Castiel pleaded over his shoulder, sounding too much like a kid afraid to get in trouble with his parents. Dean lowered his arm quickly, before Castiel could see his disgust. "I had an incident with the oven before I finished baking your pie."

"An inthidenth? He-hem…incident?" Dean inquired. He was slightly distracted by pinching his nose to block out the smell and batting the stinging moisture from his eyes.

"The oven spat fire at me. So I smote it." Dean's hand fell away from his nose, only so his mouth could drop open. He made a mental note of having a long talk with Sam, and to Cas-proof the bunker. With Sticky Notes, if need be.

The kitchen was in a better state than he had feared. To be honest, he had shielded his eyes before stepping inside and peeked through his fingers.

Dozens of dirty, goopy spoons covered the counter and table, along with an overturned blender that was still on and vibrating, bowls of every size arranged like a set of drums, and bags of flour ripped open with their snowy-white contents sprinkled across the floor, tracking every step they made. Cracked eggs oozed out their yellow brains, and there were tubs of cherries, apples, and…pumpkin seeds? What the hell kind of pie had he thrown together? And how did he get half those eggs on the ceiling? The door of the oven was open, still puffing thick, black smoke, and Dean kicked it shut with his foot. Or tried to; the door of the oven fell off and clattered on the floor.

The pie itself—if you could call it that—sat cooling on the table. It was a miracle the pie had even survived the ordeal. As a matter of fact, the word "pie" was too generous for…whatever this was.

The crust was black and scorched worse than the driest desert on Earth. Twigs from outside had been stuck into the crust like some pro-nature version of candles. Some strange red-orange juice bubbled through the cracks. When Castiel volunteered to cut him a large wedge of it, because Dean hadn't found the courage to take a step toward it yet, that red-orange goop spilled out like fresh guts from a corpse, bleeding over the clean white plate. Upon closer inspection, he realized there were whole pumpkin seeds baked inside and a dark brown substance that, dear God above, Dean hoped was only chocolate.

His lip curled, he stuck his tongue out at it, and he shook his head, as if that would remove the pie from his sight. When Castiel glanced up from beneath his lashes to gauge his reaction, Dean forced a smile. Then it was back to head shaking and tongue-flicking and pondering over a name for this abomination.

"Wow, Cas…you shouldn't have," Dean moaned. _No, really, you should not have. There is no way this will end well for my digestive system._

"Are you going to try it?" Castiel wondered. Dean gulped.

"That? Of course. It's…pie. Yummy…homemade… _pie_." Dean wondered which one of those words was more truthful.

A lump of nerves clogged his throat as he took his place at the table, and he tasted bile. He struggled not to gag in front of Castiel; oh, the _smell_! There was no use in insulting the angel when he could hold a decent grudge. How was he even supposed to cram this stuff in his mouth? He would have to shove it in, one quick scoop, and swallow before he could regret it.

He was Dean freakin' Winchester. He had hunted vampires, werewolves, shapeshifters, and demons by the dozen across the country. He had breathed in the odor of burning bodies more often than freshly-brewed coffee in the morning. What was one slice of overcooked mystery pie? It probably tasted a lot better than it looked.

Famous last words.

He scooped up a narrow mound of pie onto his fork and swore that it was crawling. _Something tells me I'm going to live to regret this._

"Well, here we go. Nothing like homemade pie." One, two, three.

The fork slid into his mouth and he stuffed the jiggling lump down his throat, hoping to never taste it on his tongue. Too late. His mind thought _pie,_ betrayed him, and his tongue brushed across the gooey substance. It was like chugging a smoothie of holy oil, sulfur, and rock salt all in one. His eyes watered even as they squeezed together tightly, his palm pounded on the table, and this time he gagged.

"Oh, my God," he cried out, barely a whisper as his throat recovered from the revolting taste. Castiel hovered near his shoulder, studying him in wild concern.

"Dean? Is it enjoyable?" Without a drink, it was impossible to staunch the cloying aftertaste in his mouth and his brain had trouble processing what Castiel asked of him. Enjoyable wasn't exactly the first adjective to come to mind.

Out of nowhere, from the shadowy recesses of Dean's mind, an ancient memory was unearthed, of a time when he was ten and Sam was six. Dean had been bedridden with one hell of a cold, so his little brother had decided to make him breakfast instead of the other way around for a change.

The result was less than appetizing.

Stale cornflakes drowned in too much milk, toast that was hardly visible under a mountain of butter, a handful of broken Chips Ahoy cookies, red-and-green Christmas sprinkles, and leftover meatballs from two days before being topped with the last of the mint ice cream. It was certainly a waste of food that Dean would have otherwise saved for Sammy's benefit, and he knew Dad would pitch a fit if he found out. The sight was nauseating, never mind the sickeningly sweet taste that blended with the hot mucus lining his sore throat that morning, but because it was Sam, his little brother who looked so proud and worried as he stood over him, Dean had forced down every last drop of it, lied through his teeth, and said it was the best meal he ever had. Specifically, he remembered claiming that Martha Stewart didn't hold a candle to it.

Of course, his already-twisting stomach had rejected the strange meal about a half hour afterward.

Dean leaped up from the table, pointing to the disastrous concoction in front of him now.

"You want to know what that is? Well, I will tell you what that is. That…is not a pie! That is…"

Those soulful blue puppy eyes silenced him on the spot. The disappointment and shame had already shadowed Castiel's face. Here he was, expecting the worst. Once more, Dean was reminded of little brother Sam, who made his best effort to please his big brother. And here Dean was, thirty years later, forcing that same smile, plunging a spoon of only-God-knew-what into his mouth, and calling it worthy of Martha Stewart.

"That is…the best pie I have ever tasted under this roof," he finished.

That last part wasn't exactly a lie. It was the only pie he had ever tasted under this roof since Sam always forgot the pie and he would have to stop for some every time they were out on a case. And when that relieved grin split across Cas' face, Dean knew his fate was sealed and he would never tell him the truth. _The hell I go through for these two…I regret nothing._

"The best pie, Dean? You're sure about that?" The two turned their heads to seek out Sam, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, arms folded over his broad chest, looking on with a smug smile. Dean returned it, much to Sam's confusion. Payback time.

"Sammy!" Dean rushed to his little brother's side, welcomed him with open arms, and steered him toward an empty seat at the table. Right toward Castiel's not-so-heavenly creation. "Glad you could join us. Have you tasted Cas' pie yet? Mm-mm- _mm_! The little angel made it all by himself."

He pushed Sam down into the chair and shoved his chair in until Sam gasped from hitting the edge of the table. It wasn't complete until Dean tied a napkin around Sam's neck.

"No, I…" Sam spotted the abomination. Like his brother, his horror almost betrayed itself on his face, but one puppy-eyed look from Castiel brought a forced smile to his lips. The wild gesture Dean made behind Castiel's back— _no, no, no_ —might have also had something to do with Sam's compliance.

"Oh, you have no idea what you're missing. It's unlike anything you've ever tasted," Dean continued. Sam couldn't stop gaping at the mess in the middle of the table and even poked the black crust with his fork. It bled even more.

"I can believe it," he responded weakly.

"Here, let me help you with that." Dean cut an enormous slice of pie and plopped it onto Sam's plate. A few drops of juice flew onto Sam's lips and he made the mistake of licking them away, his mouth puckering like he had sucked on a lemon. "Bon appetite."

"Jerk," Sam hissed under his breath.

"Bitch." Dean winked and he glimpsed the promise of vengeance in Sam's eyes. Bring it on. To please Castiel, who barely breathed as he awaited Sam's approval, Sam stuck the fork in his mouth and swallowed. Silently, Dean snapped a picture of Sam's face as it contorted in pure agony, his hands fanning his mouth.

"Oh, man…mm… _ech_! Ugh! Wow, Cas…." Sam panted, his skin turning three shades redder in seconds. Dean was grateful he hadn't dug into that particular section of the pie. "What…what's your secret ingredient?"

"If I told you, it would no longer be a secret." Honestly, Dean wasn't sure he wanted the recipe for Castiel's pie. "Since you two seem to enjoy my cooking, perhaps I should do it more often."

"No!" the boys shouted in unison. Castiel glanced from one to the other in alarm. _Not without some cooking lessons first,_ Dean thought. Thankfully, he had grown better at thinking on his feet. "I mean…why go to all the trouble? Man, you have enough on your plate as it is."

"Nonsense. For you two, it would be my pleasure." Dean and Sam exchanged fearful looks. _What have we done now?_

"Just out of curiosity, Cas, what video did you watch?" Dean inquired.

"Technically, it was a series of cooking videos labeled _Cooking Fast and Fresh with West._ Rather precocious for a five-year-old, I'll admit, but I suppose stranger things have happened." Once more, he glanced at the two brothers questioningly. "Why?"

….

 _ **A/N: If you haven't yet seen the videos on Misha's YouTube channel for Cooking Fast and Fresh with West, I highly recommend it. He's never made a pie like this before, but he is the inventor of pasta with jam sauce. I adore Misha's parenting skills. Also, many thanks to those who have taken the time to read these one-shots. More to come soon!**_


	20. Samulet

_**A/N: Hello, everyone. This one-shot will be a bit more serious and emotional than the previous ones I've done, but I also feel that this was an important detail missing from Season 11. I hope everyone enjoys it. Warning: obvious spoilers for the end of Season 11.**_

 _ **Samulet**_

"I still can't believe it," Dean mused after Chuck retired to his bedroom for the night, leaving the two brothers alone in the library. Dean's green eyes lingered on the empty carton of Chinese food and the white mug that read _World's Greatest Dad_ , partially filled with cold coffee. The mug belonged to Chuck, but Dean was willing to bet there were several angels, including Cas, that would argue against its validity. Beside the mug was a stack of the _Supernatural_ books, which Dean had dug out simply to stare at in amazement. "Who knew that little nerdy prophet would turn out to be God? What do you think of my chances of becoming President?"

"Dean," Sam warned quietly, the exhaustion in his voice evident before he rubbed a hand over his bloodshot eyes. It had been a long day for both of them, physically and emotionally. Dean could make all the jokes he wanted, but he wasn't fooling anybody, least of all his brother.

Truthfully, it shook him to the core, discovering that there was indeed a God out there. Even more disturbing was the realization that, for a long time, God had stopped caring about the fate of Heaven, the world, or the humans he created. He just left home one day and never looked back. A disappointment, just like John Winchester.

Dean wondered if that was before or after Mary Winchester burned alive on the ceiling of Sam's nursery three decades ago. He was afraid to ask.

The smirk on his face was fragile to begin with, but it crumbled under the strain of Sam's voice. His fingers curled around a worn black rope that had been left in coils on the table. Dangling from the rope was his old amulet, the dim light from the lamp rippling over it.

"I never thought I'd see this again," Dean murmured, tracing the amulet. All at once, it felt familiar and comforting, as if he'd never lost it in the first place. Sam watched him play with it, his own hands forming a teepee in front of his mouth, shielding his anxious expression. "You know, that's the one thing I still don't get, after everything I've seen and heard today. After all this time, this old thing shows up in your pocket. I mean, did Chuck—uh, _God_ —put it there for me to find…or…?"

His voice trailed off. The unspoken words were suspended heavily between them. Sam sighed and lowered his hands into his lap, looking very much like a kid that had gotten in trouble with his parents.

"That day you tossed it in the trash…before we left the motel…I fished it out," he said. Dean's jaw clenched as he tried to hide his surprise. He avoided the weight of Sam's stare, instead his gaze burning into the amulet swinging from his fingers like a pendulum. "I carried it with me after that. I always had it on me, every day. I figured if the day came when you really missed it and regretted throwing it away, I'd have kept it safe for you. But you never said anything about it again."

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean replied, barely a whisper. For a moment, the silence dragged on between them, a void that was practically miles apart. Little did Dean know that Sam was wringing his hands in his lap, struggling to put his mind at peace.

"So, do you?" Sam asked. Dean's trance on the amulet broke and he finally met his brother's eyes, his expression disoriented.

"What?"

"Do you regret losing it?" Sam motioned to the amulet. Dean's lips formed a tight, thin line, as if he was hoping to keep his darkest secrets locked away inside. Under Sam's intense, unwavering gaze, he broke wide open.

"Yeah," he admitted, his voice strained. The pain in his eyes was only marred by the threat of tears. Desperately, he batted them away with the palm of his hand. "For years, I felt like some part of me was missing, but it was too late. I made my decision and I thought this thing was gone forever. That's why I didn't think it was worth moaning about."

"Well, that's a relief," Sam said, sounding none-too-pleased. "Because it hurt like hell, Dean. Seeing you throw it in the trash and call it worthless. Why? Because Cas failed to find God? Maybe to him it was worthless, but I never thought you'd feel the same way."

"Sam—" Dean groaned, massaging his aching temples. He didn't have any more room in his head for one more argument or emotional catastrophe or shocking revelation. But Sam was far from finished.

" _Dean_ ," he retorted, silencing his brother on the spot. He leaned forward and that abrupt movement forced Dean to meet his brother's eyes again. "Do you remember when I gave that to you?"

"Of course I do," Dean snapped, as if Sam was ridiculous to think otherwise. "It was the same Christmas that I stole a couple of presents for you. Barbie stuff." He chuckled weakly.

"Do you know why I gave that to you?" Sam demanded, ignoring Dean's remarks. "I meant to give it to Dad, but I gave it to you instead. Because you were always the one to take care of me, to comfort me, and hell, steal presents so I wouldn't be miserable on Christmas. You were there, and he wasn't. I looked up to you, and when you threw that amulet away that day…especially after I screwed up by releasing Lucifer from his cage…I felt like some part of you had given up on me."

The moisture that had welled up in Dean's eyes spilled over his lashes and streaked his cheeks. The past few months had been difficult on an emotional scale, what with unleashing the Darkness and Lucifer possessing Cas, but finding God had driven his nerves to the edge. Now this latest admission from Sam pushed him straight over the cliff and he couldn't seem to stop himself from shaking and sobbing in his seat.

One thing was for sure: he never wanted to turn out like his father or Chuck. Especially not to the brother he raised from birth.

"I am so sorry, Sammy," he wept. He lifted his head to the ceiling, blinking rapidly, but the flood was too strong to control or to hide from his brother. "I've done plenty of horrible things in my life, and I've made mistakes, but believe me when I say that I regretted this one the minute I did it. We've been through some rough times together, and we've broken the world more times than I can count on one hand, but you listen to me: no matter what happens, I will never give up on you. Okay? Never. Not for anything else in the world. I never needed an amulet to remind myself of that." He paused to wipe the moisture from his sore cheeks. "Tell me what I need to do, Sam. Tell me how to make it up to you and I'll do it."

Sam pushed back his chair and rose from his seat, his long hair hiding his face from Dean's view. For a second, panic flashed in Dean's eyes and made his heart race in his chest, because he was so sure Sam would storm out and they would endure another period of terrible silence rather than being brothers. He didn't think he had the strength to bear that again, not tonight.

Instead, Sam hovered beside Dean's chair and placed a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder.

"It's okay, Dean. I forgive you. Wear it, don't wear it…that's up to you. Nothing will change the fact that you're my brother, or that we're in this together until the end." Dean felt Sam's hand fall away and he listened to the faint tread of his footsteps echo down the hall. For a while, Dean stayed there, watching the amulet swing back and forth from his clenched fists.

At the end of it all, he slipped the amulet around his neck. Right where it belonged.

….

 _ **A/N: As always, I'd like to take this moment to thank those that have left reviews:**_

 _ **Emma Winchester 424: Glad I could make you laugh with these one-shots! And I always thought that Dean would be more bothered by the smell of smoke or fire since he can remember his mother's death, so I added in that little observation for consideration. Thanks for reading!**_

 _ **Kirsten: Thank you so much for reading and letting me know that you enjoyed it! I figured since this show has a habit of breaking the 4th wall on occasion that I would do a little bit of that myself. (-; Misha's YouTube channel is certainly fun to visit from time to time.**_

 _ **maysdtwitt: Thank you for the reviews! Of course Dean would figure out that it was a prank; he's pretty smart. And he has that hunter's paranoia keeping him going. Writing those April Fools' Day one-shots makes me miss the episodes where the boys would prank each other like the goofy brothers they are.**_


	21. Glitter

_**A/N: Hello everyone and happy Friday!**_

 _ **The idea for this one-shot came from a somewhat unexpected source. So, I've been binge-watching the Supernatural convention panels on YouTube (which are all hilarious, by the way) and there is one Jensen/Misha panel that features a mess of glitter. A fan made something for Jensen and Misha covered in pink glitter, Misha got it all over his hands, and he wiped it off on Jensen. The result is funny. If you want to watch the video, you can find it by searching it on YouTube: "Jensen and Misha, 2015 Jib6 panel." I highly recommend it; those two are wonderful and entertaining together!**_

 _ **And so this idea was born, with a little bit of role reversal. Enjoy!**_

 _ **Glitter**_

As part of the job, Sam was used to returning to a rundown motel like something straight out of _Psycho_ to find his brother in strange situations. Strangeness didn't have the same definition for the Winchesters as it did for other, more normal people. One time Sam walked in on Dean's third orgasm, induced not by a beautiful woman, but by a vibrating bed he'd fed with quarters. Another time they had stayed at one of those raunchy, only-good-for-affairs motels with a mirror on the ceiling and...he still could not think about what Dean had done while staring up at that mirror without shuddering.

From experience, he got used to closing his eyes as he first stepped into their motel room, unsure of what he might find Dean doing this time when left to his own devices.

He never once imagined he would see his brother dipping his bare hands into a salad bowl full of rainbow glitter. All he could imagine, as he listened to the wet _plop-plop-plop_ and watched the pink-purple-gold flecks sprinkle from Dean's fingertips, was that his brother finally slaughtered a baby unicorn and was now performing a satanic ritual with its blood.

"Uh, Dean?" Sam spoke softly, like he would speak to someone not in their right mind. Dean's green eyes locked with his, but he didn't offer any word of explanation. _Plop-plop-plop._ "Aren't you a little old for finger-painting?" Dean's expression turned into a sour one.

"I'm doing an experiment, dumbass." Sam knew he shouldn't ask, but...

"Experiment?" he parroted back. He tossed the keys to Dean, out of habit after each time he drove the Impala. The keys landed in the middle of the bowl, sinking into that goopy, glittery mess. Dean glared and fished them out of the bowl, laying them on a piece of unfolded newspaper to dry. Then it was back to _plop-plop-plop._ "Seriously, dude, what are you trying to prove? That you can still attract more women than I can if you cover yourself in full-body glitter?"

"That's probably true." As he said it, Dean pointed a finger at Sam and a thick drop of wet glitter landed on Sam's cheek. "But no. You ever notice how Cas has this thing about being touched? He's like one of those germophobes."

"Yeah, well," Sam sighed and hurried over to the mirror to see if all the glitter had been scrubbed off his cheek. It was red from rubbing, but dammit, there was still one tiny speck left. "He's practically an alien, Dean. Give him time to warm up to human beings first. One of these days, he might surprise you with a bear hug. _Ouch_!"

Sam scraped the glitter away with his nail, only for a bead of blood to follow. That glitter had been nearly embedded in his skin.

"Here's my master plan: I'm going to see how much that little nerd angel can stand." _Plop-plop-plop._

"Why?" Dean wasn't exactly the touchy type, either.

" _Because_ ," Dean answered shortly, as if he was five years old again and _because_ was a good enough reason. Finally, Dean took his hands out of the bowl of rainbow glitter and wiggled his fingers, making a few stray drops speckle the table. "I think that should do it. Get rid of the evidence, Sammy."

"Why do _I_ have to clean up _your_ mess?" Sam complained, shaking his head at the bowl of glitter. The last thing he wanted was to spill any more unicorn-vomit on himself just to find that it wouldn't come out without some serious scrubbing.

" _Because_!" Dean repeated. "I'm about to get this experiment started. Evidence, Sam!" With a low muttering of "jerk"-to which Dean responded with "bitch" in class knee-jerk reaction-he collected the bowl of glitter with extreme caution. He even snapped on blue latex gloves before he touched it.

Carrying it into the bathroom, he left the bowl in the sink for Dean to take care of. The newspapers were balled up and tossed into the trash with a satisfying _swoosh._ The glittery keys were wrapped in a damp towel from the floor and left on the edge of the sink to dry. Control freak that he was, Sam scribbled quickly on a yellow Post-It note so they wouldn't forget the keys when they decided to hit the road. Not that they would get far without them, but anything that came between Dean and his Baby made Dean prone to anxiety.

Poking his head out of the bathroom, he watched Dean perch on the edge of his bed, flexing his sloppy fingers and admiring his work like a woman gloating over a fresh manicure. Normally, Sam's brotherly instincts were much stronger when it came to cleaning up Dean's messes, urging him to protest, but he was genuinely curious about how this "experiment" would turn out. Only Dean would be bold enough to humiliate an angel.

"Whenever you're ready," Sam signaled, leaning against the doorframe to watch the magic happen. He would have tried summoning Cas himself, but for some reason Sam was reluctant to admit, Cas' response time was faster for Dean than it was for him. Dean closed his eyes and mockingly made the sign of the cross, leaving behind a trail of glitter on his forehead and shirt. Sam snickered. Dean shushed him with a finger to his lips-now he looked like Queen Amidala with rainbow lipstick.

"Cas?" Dean called out. They waited several moments, but nothing happened. Maybe he was actually busy for once in Heaven. "Okay, I'll pull out the big guns. _You're my angel-come and save me tonight_ …" As usual, the prayers that Dean sent to Cas were little more than a joke on his part.

"Are you quoting Aerosmith's "Angel"?" Sam asked. Not too long ago, Dean had blasted the song in the Impala and had belted out to it. Dean opened his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed that Sam had recognized it.

"You have any better prayers? Be my guest. It was either that or Sarah McLachlan." Sam held up his hand, not willing to take the chance. Apparently, it was a good enough prayer, because the room was filled with the sound of flapping wings, and Cas appeared, seemingly out of thin air to stand before them, trench coat and all.

"Yes, Dean? I flew down as quickly as I could." _Of course you did,_ Sam thought with a little spark of jealousy, if he was being honest. The question was inquiring more than it was impatient, the angel in Cas ready to obey any command the Winchesters gave. Sam couldn't help but notice how often he was stuck staring at the back of Cas' dark head, the majority of Cas' attention devoted to Dean.

By now, Dean knew his brother too well and mouthed the word _jealous._ Sam mouthed back _not,_ though he crossed his arms and jutted out his bottom lip like a child. _He_ was the one that prayed every day, _he_ was the one that believed in a higher power even when Dean mocked it, yet _Dean_ ended up with an angel as a best friend. So he was a little jealous.

Well, right now, Dean was going to prove his affection by pranking said angel, even if the angel in question was unaware of it.

"Oh, Cas, buddy, am I glad to see you. Come here," Dean welcomed him with too much enthusiasm to be sincere. Jumping up from the bed, he spread his arms wide, prepared to hug Cas. The angel noticed Dean's glitter-drenched hands and took a hesitant step back, flinching like he was about to be electrocuted instead. "Gee, look at this mess! Yikes!"

Dean made an exaggerated face of disgust, wrinkling his nose, and doing a poor job of shaking the glitter off his hands. Flakes of sparkly red, gold, silver, and purple splashed Cas' neat tie and lapels. He gaped at the stain as though it was acid that would burn clean through his vessel formerly known as Jimmy Novak.

Meanwhile, Sam was suddenly grateful that Cas could not see his face, because it was turning beet-red as Sam fought a losing battle to hold in his laughter. Never once had he heard Dean utter words like "gee" and "yikes."

"It's all over my hands," Dean lamented and clucked his tongue in shame. Then the real fun came. Sam watched over Cas' shoulder as Dean first contemplated his shiny hands and then Cas' previously spotless attire. "Here, Cas, stand still for a moment."

To Cas' utmost discomfort and Sam's amusement, Dean deliberately closed the distance between them and wiped the glitter on Cas' sleeve. First the palm, then the back of his hand, leaving a streak of glitter behind like snot on a Kleenex. Sam bit his tongue to stifle his giggles, but it proved too much when Cas began to hyperventilate through his nose, as lifeless in stance as Michelangelo's statue of David. When he finally turned his head to send Sam a helpless, pleading stare, his blue eyes wide as Baby's rims, Sam doubled over and burst out laughing. Bambi was less startled than Cas was now.

"Oh, no, wait," Dean moaned. Clearly, he wasn't satisfied with his experiment yet. "I got glitter all over your pretty, clean trench coat. Let me brush it off." Dean reached forward and Cas stumbled back, staring wildly at Dean's hand as if it was a gun instead.

"Please stop," Cas croaked out, in a way Sam found truly pitiful.

"Why? I'm being a good human being! You see, Cas, us humans...we like to touch each other. Walk down any street and I guarantee there will be other grubby, feely humans just like me." Cas gulped loudly. Sam was certain that the angel was having second thoughts about slumming with humanity. If Dean wasn't careful, they might never get Cas to answer their prayers again.

"Okay, Dean," Sam interrupted, catching his breath. He stepped forward and offered Cas some well-deserved cover. "I think you've had enough fun for one day."

"Yeah, okay. It was a stupid joke. Sorry, Cas." Dean held out his hand in a show of surrender, but Cas didn't accept it. In fact, Cas wasn't moving at all. Sam wasn't sure if angels needed to breathe, but still Cas was rigid in muscle, tight-lipped, and frozen in fear. If they hadn't known Cas from Adam, they might have mistaken him for a colorful wax figure instead of a celestial being.

"Hey, Cas, you alright?" Sam asked, gently prodding the angel on the shoulder. Even that small touch brought fresh tension under the fabric of his suit, every fiber of Cas' being screaming _do not touch._

"Uh, Cas? Castiel?" Dean snapped his fingers in front of Cas' face, but he didn't even blink. Sam waved. Dean stroked his chin thoughtfully, painting a glittery beard there. "Huh. Fascinating results."

"Well, I think it's safe to say your experiment was a success, Dean. You succeeded in breaking our angel."

"Whoops." _Note to self,_ Sam thought as they flocked around Cas, trying and failing to fix him. _Cas hates glitter._

...

 _ **A/N: As always, I must thank everyone for taking the time to read. I also want to thank Emma Winchester 424 for the awesome review: that last one-shot was more emotional than the others, and I felt it was a necessary one between the boys. And you're right; Sam and Dean are the heart of this series and we know they'll stand together until the very end.**_


	22. Heat of the Moment

_**A/N: Hello, everyone! Today I have an announcement: I've decided that I will start updating this one-shot collection twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays. Mostly because I have a lot of ideas churning for this one-shot collection. So I hope you enjoy the one-shot and happy Tuesday!**_

 _ **Heat of the Moment**_

"Dean, can you please turn the music down? I'm trying to concentrate," Sam complained for the third time in the past half hour. His patience was wearing thin while he hunched over his laptop, already eyeballs deep in research.

As usual, Dean was busy losing himself in a classic rock song that he preferred to play too loudly, every beat pounding in Sam's ears and vibrating along the walls. Sam suspected that half the reason for the volume was just to get on his nerves. It wouldn't be the first time his brother did something this irritating for kicks.

Long ago, Sam came to realize that he and Dean made the perfect team of hunters. While he was extraordinary when it came to the research, feeling more at home in the quiet space of libraries, Dean lived for the action. Unfortunately, there usually wasn't much action without first doing the necessary research.

Sam's fist thundered on the table.

"Dean, I am the one doing research here so we can solve this case and save lives. I can't do that with your obnoxiously loud music blasting in my ears. For the last time, turn it down!" Sam demanded.

"Oh, no problem," Dean agreed, much too readily. When he reached for the dial on the radio, he deliberately turned the music up instead of down. It was a mistake to stand in the way between Dean and his music, but that didn't stop Sam from trying every time.

"Dean," Sam warned, his voice competing with the music. All he earned from Dean was a smug grin. He pointed to his ear and mouthed the words _I can't hear you_ before playing air guitar again. The last chords of the song faded and a new one began, much to Sam's endless frustration as he curled his fingers into a fist.

Even if he was completely absorbed in his research, Sam would have recognized the song as easily as a gunshot. A chill of panic crawled down the nape of his neck and he looked up slowly.

"—it was the heat of the moment—" Dean belted out proudly on the top of his lungs, no doubt just to be more aggravating to his brother. Bad memories clouded the forefront of his brain, memories of the Trickster forcing him to watch Dean die hundreds of times in an endless string of Tuesdays.

Sam's reaction was instantaneous.

Jumping up from his chair, so fast that it toppled over, he dashed over to the radio and flung it against the wall, shattering it into pieces. Chunks of plastic exploded, accompanied by Dean's own yell of surprise and outrage. The song crackled one last time, the singer's vocals monstrously warped, and then it died altogether. Still, Sam kept stomping on the radio until no trace of the song could be heard.

 _Smash, smash, smash!_

Dean had scrambled over to the other side of the bed, his arms raised above his head to guard his face from flying debris. He stared at Sam wild-eyed, a look that silently questioned his sanity. Sam shrugged in apology.

"I hate that song."

….


	23. Magic 8

_**Magic 8**_

"Will I ever be rich and famous?" Dean whispered to the Magic 8 Ball in his hands and shook it rapidly. He peeked from under one eyelid at the glowing purple message. The die rolled between two possible answers before settling on one.

 _Reply hazy. Try again._

Dean frowned. What the hell was that supposed to mean? That he had a fifty-fifty chance? Well, he supposed he was technically famous since he was one of the best hunters in the network of hunters out there, along with being Michael's true vessel, but he and Sam were far from rich, living off of greasy food and credit card scams.

Dean laid his head back on the pillow and searched his brain for another question to ask. His green eyes roamed the crappy motel room, which resembled a dozen other crappy motels they had stayed in across the country. Two narrow beds side by side, shaggy carpeting in need of replacing, faulty plumbing, a gigantic landscape painting on the wall, a TV with ten channels, Sam's laptop surrounded by dozens of research notes-

Ooh! He had a good one this time.

"Will I ever be taller than Sam?" he asked the Magic 8 Ball. _Shake, shake, shake._

 _Don't count on it._

Dean scowled. What did the stupid Magic 8 Ball know anyway? Clearly, it was as oblivious to supernatural forces as the other humans they walked among on a daily basis. If there were demons and witches and Tricksters, why couldn't there be a way to make him grow a few extra inches?

Other than making a deal with a demon of course. He'd never be stupid enough to do that. Again.

"Will I ever be in the same room as Angelina Jolie, Pamela Anderson, and a boatload of pie?" It was one of his tamer recurring fantasies. _Shake, shake, shake._

 _Outlook not so good._ Hmm. _Shake._ Whoops.

 _Outlook good._

"Ye-e-eah! There is a God!" he howled happily. Suddenly, the motel room filled with the sound of flapping wings. The papers on the table rustled and the ones not held down by Sam's laptop blew away. Dean glanced up from the Magic 8 Ball to see Cas standing in the middle of their motel room.

He had never seen an angel look so flustered. There were circles under Cas' blue eyes, which were otherwise bloodshot from either alcohol or sheer exhaustion. Normally there wasn't a strand of hair out of place on his head, but today his dark hair was ruffled and windswept, standing on end like he had been electrocuted. He wasn't so clean shaven anymore, a steady layer of stubble covering his chin. His trench coat hung loosely on his shoulders, the suit beneath it severely rumpled. And was that a patch of blood on his sleeve?

Not to mention the angel blade gripped in his hand, as though he was ready for war.

"Wow. You have seen better days," Dean said, whistling lowly as he examined Cas up and down. Cas' lips formed a tight line. "What's up?"

Instinctively, Cas tilted his head up toward the ceiling and then caught himself. He had fallen for that one too many times, and yet Dean still snickered at the angel's naivety.

"You spoke God's name. So I came." Dean raised his eyebrows and he couldn't stop the foolish grin from sliding over his face, childishly taking those words in a very different direction than Cas intended. Cas was oblivious as he frantically scanned the motel room. "Where is He?"

"How the hell should I know? Don't you think if I knew where God was, I'd tell you and we could solve all our problems?"

"You said _there is God_ ," Castiel reminded him. From the sound of it, his patience was nonexistent.

"No, I said there is _a_ God. Because I was..." He looked down at the Magic 8 Ball in his hands and remembered what he had asked a moment ago. Chances were, Cas wouldn't understand his need to invoke God's name for the sake of two attractive women and pie. Even Sam had a hard time understanding it. "Never mind. Why not try asking the Magic 8 Ball?"

Dean got up from the bed and tossed the ball to Cas. The angel caught it in his free hand and studied it like it was an alien from another world.

"Magic...8...Ball?" he said, tilting his head to the side.

"Sure. It'll tell you everything you need to know about your future. Go on. Ask a question, shake it up, and read the message." _He is going to smite me for this,_ Dean realized, but he could never resist the fun of watching Cas puzzle out their earthly inventions.

"Where is God?" Cas asked. _Shake, shake, shake._ Dean peered over Cas' shoulder at the answer.

 _Better not tell you now._

Cas glared at the Magic 8 Ball, the angel blade still fiddling in his other hand. Carefully, Dean pried it from Cas' fingers before he murdered the inanimate object.

"Oh, yeah. Forgot to mention. It works better with yes or no questions. Try again." As Cas claimed a spot on the edge of Dean's bed to interrogate the Magic 8 Ball, Dean grabbed a cold beer from the miniature fridge and got ready to enjoy the show.

...

 _One Hour Later_

"Where is God?" _Shake, shake, shake._

 _Ask again later._ Thirty seconds passed.

"Where is God?" _Shake, shake, shake._

 _Concentrate and ask again._

"I _am_ concentrating!" Cas growled at the toy in his hands. He switched tactics. "Will I be able to find God soon?" _Shake, shake, shake._

 _Outlook not so good._

"Dean, this is futile," he moaned, lowering the Magic 8 Ball into his lap. From where he lounged at the table, playing with Sam's laptop, Dean waved encouragingly.

"No, no, I think you're getting through to it. You're an angel, that ball's got nothing on you," he said, never once removing his eyes from the laptop screen or his third beer he was sipping. Cas considered the Magic 8 Ball again.

"Is God nearby?" _Shake, shake, shake._

 _Signs point to yes._ Cas sighed in relief. Now they were getting somewhere.

"Is God on any flatbread?" _Shake, shake, shake._

 _Very doubtful._

"I knew it," Cas said.

The motel room door opened and Sam strolled in carrying two grease-stained bags of food and a couple manila files tucked under his arm, which he added to the growing pile of research notes. When he spotted Dean sitting at his laptop, he dropped the food and shooed his brother away.

"Hey, back off! Remember what happened last time you used my laptop? It was frozen for an entire day!" Sam grabbed his laptop from Dean's hands. Of course, Dean was happy enough to abandon it for the food. Most of it was for him anyway, with only one salad cup reserved for Sam.

Sam paused in inspecting his laptop to observe Cas, hunched on the edge of Dean's bed and furiously shaking the Magic 8 Ball, shouting questions about God's secret whereabouts.

"Uh...Dean? What is he doing?" Sam whispered. Dean looked up from inhaling the juicy aroma of his burger and blinked in Cas' direction, as if it was his first time seeing the angel there.

"Oh, him? He was frustrated in his search for God, so I told him to consult the holy Magic 8 Ball." He took a massive chunk out of his burger and leaned back in his chair, a blissful moan escaping his throat. "I've said it before and I will say it again. There. Is. A. God."

"Glad you finally believe it, Dean," Sam teased, stowing his laptop safely under his pillow. Even after all they had seen from Heaven, Dean was still stubborn in his denial of God's existence. As Sam sat across from his brother at the small, round table to enjoy his healthy meal, he kept sneaking glances over his shoulder at the elephant in the room that was Cas with a Magic 8 Ball. "He does know those things don't really have psychic powers, right?"

"No." Dean smirked around a mouthful of burger. "He's been asking _where's God_ for the last hour." Sam shook his head disapprovingly at his brother, who found way too much amusement in this.

"You know eventually one of us is going to have to tell him." Dean sighed and dropped his burger on the plate, licking the juice from his fingers.

"The usual way?" Dean held out his fist to Sam. In a moment, Sam pushed his salad cup aside and did the same, holding his fist over his flat palm. _Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!_ Dean cursed loudly.

"Always with the scissors, Dean," Sam scolded his brother, grinning victoriously.

"Where is God?" _Shake, shake, shake._

"Where is God?" _Shake, shake, shake._

"I know you know. I will stop at nothing until you tell me. Where is God?" _Shake, shake, shake._ By this time, Dean couldn't help but feel a little pity for Cas. The poor guy was going out of his mind in his desperate search for God. He even borrowed Dean's amulet with the claim that it would light up like some kind of holy EMF reader.

He wouldn't be happy to learn the Magic 8 Ball was another dead end to finding God.

"Sammy, can I just enjoy my last meal before I break the news to him?" Dean pointed to his delicious half-eaten burger and rubbed his belly, making an exaggerated sad face. Sam shrugged, already stabbing his plastic fork into his salad again.

"Sure, Dean. Whatever gets the job done."

...

 _ **A/N: I don't know about you, but it's always amusing to have Cas react to something entirely new to him.**_


	24. Peace

_**A/N: Hello, everyone! I hope you're all doing well.**_

 _ **So this week I bought a fun little book called "700 Things to Write About," which helped to knock some fresh ideas loose in my head for writing. One of the prompts from that book inspired this one-shot, concerning an argument about having world peace or indoor plumbing. It sounded like a silly argument that two siblings might have, so I decided to test it out on Sam and Dean. That being said, this one-shot surprised me while writing it because it turned out to be a lot more serious than I had expected.**_

 _ **I hope you enjoy it, too. Spoilers for S11, in case there are still people who have not seen it.**_

 _ **Peace**_

Half the time, when he and Dean argued, Sam didn't know how it even got started in the first place. Usually, it was because one of them tossed out the hook and the other was stupid enough to bite it, and neither one would quit until the other gave up the fight. Some of their arguments lasted a long time, since they both inherited the Winchester trait of stubbornness.

Sometimes their arguments had to do with serious issues they harbored, like a desperate choice made to prevent one tragedy at the cost of bringing on the end of the world. Again. Other times, their arguments were silly and repetitive, but being brothers, they chose to fight it out rather than let it lie.

Like now, for instance.

"Think about it for a minute, Sammy," Dean said, tilting the neck of his beer bottle to his younger brother across the table. "If you could only have one, world peace or indoor plumbing, which would it be?"

Sam glanced up from the piles of papers and open books spread across the table in the heart of their library and shot Dean a slightly irritated look. Here he was trying to do some research for their latest case, and Dean was asking nonsensical questions for no better reason than pure amusement. And yet, his brotherly instincts readily kicked in, goading him into answering the question instead of ignoring his brother.

"Come on, Dean. Any reasonably moral person would go the way of Miss America and say world peace in a heartbeat," he said with finality. Dean raised his eyebrows skeptically and took a long pull from his beer. Sam's mouth dropped open. Any attention he had reserved for his reasearch had evaporated. "Are you serious? You'd choose indoor plumbing over world peace? You could stop wars, end hunger, shelter the homeless, and you'd give it up for the luxury of going to the bathroom indoors?"

That was all the enticement Dean needed. The hook had been cast. Dean slammed his beer bottle down on the table and leaned forward, eager to get into it with his brother.

"When you say it like that, it sounds like a no-brainer. World peace means everybody's happy, right? Wrong. How cranky do you think people will be when they have to constantly leave the comfort of their homes in the middle of the night to use the outhouse? Or when they have to pee in a bottle or a chamberpot straight out of _Game of Thrones_? They'll be itching for a fight worse than ever. People would carry weapons to ward off hungry wolves and probably shoot each other out of fright. And what if some get plain lazy or can't get to the bathroom in time because-oh, yeah-it's outside? So they wet the bed. You know what that gets you? D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Try selling that to the judge. And let's not forget the kiddos who drive their moms and dads up the wall because they're too scared to go potty alone. Trust me-the world's population will plummet like you wouldn't believe."

Satisfied he'd made his case, Dean settled back in his chair and took an even larger swallow of beer. Probably congratulating himself on a job well done. Meanwhile, Sam sat stupefied on his side of the table. If his mouth was hanging open before, by now it had hit the floor.

He'd heard strange things come out of Dean's mouth before, but this certainly took the cake. Sam brought a finger under his chin and closed his mouth. That old familiar urge that came with his dream of becoming a lawyer resurfaced.

"Back up, Dean. Are you suggesting indoor plumbing is better than world peace because world peace is futile to obtain? I doubt there are many people that would agree with you. For one thing, the question of having children shouldn't have anything to do with escorting them to the bathroom before they have an accident. Parents should know how much responsibility goes into raising a child-and the sacrifices they'll need to make for that child."

Even though he never knew his mother before her grisly death at Azazel's hands, he had known his father long enough to recognize the sacrifices he had made. Sure, John Winchester had sacrificed their childhood and any chance of a normal life to take them cross-country on a revenge quest, but Sam also sensed that his father had been secretly proud that at least one of his sons had escaped the hunting life to go to college. Stanford, no less.

And then there was the final sacrifice John Winchester had made in his life-literally surrendering his life for Dean's in a deal with the devil when Dean's life hung in the balance.

"As far as being armed and wetting the bed go," Sam continued, shaking off his solemn reverie, "I would hope the average person has equal control over their actions and their bladder. And if two people get a divorce, it was probably bound to happen anyway, not because her husband pees on her when they're spooning. Besides, you survived in those crappy motels and that's one step away from an outhouse."

Dean held up his hand, begging to add his two cents.

"Hey, we know better than most people that the plumbing in those crappy motels are a water leak waiting to happen, but it sure as hell beats sharing the bathroom next to Bambi and Bigfoot and using banana leaves like in _Jumanji_."

"Did you just make three pop culture references in one sentence?" That had to be a new record for his brother.

"Yes, I did." Dean raised his chin proudly. Suddenly, all traces of humor drained from his face and his glowing green eyes dimmed with a hollow ache he rarely let shine through, making him look far wiser than his thirty-five years. "Look, man, I'm not saying that I wouldn't take world peace if I had the chance. I would. I'm saying that, after everything we've seen, this world is about as close to obtaining world peace as it is the cure for cancer. It seems no matter what we do, there's always something worse around the corner. All of our friends and family gone. Cas is Lucifer's puppet. Another Apocalypse to stop, Heaven and Hell out of order, you die, I die...it never ends. Not really. At least when I got to go, I can expect to be comfortable for a few blessed minutes of my life."

Sam couldn't say that he didn't understand Dean's perspective of the world-he understood it far more than he was willing to admit. After all, they'd seen more death and destruction in their lifetime than any human should be allowed. Even though his body was still young, Sam had enough scars on his back and chest to resemble a stained glass window. Dean's body was the same way, riddled with bullet holes, bite and knife marks alike, rippling and lacing together like a spiderweb across his taut skin.

The road had been a long one for them. And it wasn't nearly done yet.

"Well, I believe we have to keep fighting, no matter what," Sam said. He spoke gently to Dean, like his brother was someone who needed to be talked down from the ledge. "It might not always be easy to see, but little by little, we are making the world a better place. A _safer_ place. If we give up the fight, that's when the monsters win."

Dean nodded slowly, staring down into his bottle, letting Sam's words sink in for a long moment.

"So you'd share a bathroom with Bambi?" Dean teased.

"If it meant this world would stay at peace? Yeah, I'd give it a shot." Dean rolled his eyes. A moose and a deer in the bathroom together. Even Sam had to admit it sounded like the start of a bad joke from Crowley.

"Let me know how that goes, Sammy." Dean rose from his chair and set his empty beer bottle on the table. "Now, if you'll excuse me, nature calls and I have a date with some Busty Asian Beauties." As Dean rolled up a magazine under his arm and headed for the bathroom, Sam cringed. TMI. In the next moment, however, he watched his brother depart with a pang of worry.

He sincerely hoped his brother wasn't ready to give up the fight just yet.

...

 _ **A/N: Remember Jared's inspiring words, everyone: always keep fighting. Even if you're in a rough spot in life, it always gets better. Now I want to take a moment to thank those that have reviewed recently:**_

 _ **Emma Winchester 424: Thank you so much! I'm always glad to inspire laughter. Some of us may need it, after all. I agree, the scene with Castiel interrogating the cat had to be one of my favorites!**_

 _ **deadone1013: Castiel is adorable when he's trying to figure out human things. Dean can be quite mean when it comes to teasing Cas about his naive side, but that's also what brothers are for. And yes, I miss S5 Cas! He was so funny in that season when his socially awkward side started showing!**_

 _ **I-Heart-Star-Trek: Yes, Cas can be so naive and innocent, even if he's a celestial being that has been around for countless millennia. He's learning. Thanks for reading!**_


	25. Like a Prayer

_**A/N: Hello, everyone! This is going to be another serious one-shot, this time featuring Cas. Even though I really enjoy writing the humorous, socially awkward side of Cas, there is another part of him I love: the part of him that takes his role as an angel seriously and wants nothing more than to help humanity.**_

 _ **Furthermore, this one-shot goes all the way back to the Season One episode "Faith." For those who may not remember, it is the episode where reapers are introduced ("Don't Fear the Reaper", anyone?) and involves a woman named Layla Rourke dying from cancer. Consider this a follow-up to the episode and a miracle on her behalf.**_

 _ **Remember: always keep fighting.**_

 _ **Like a Prayer**_

 _"I'm going to pray for you."_

 _"Now that is a miracle."_

After Layla Rourke closed the door behind her, Dean perched on the edge of the bed, staring after her with a hollow ache in his chest. Somehow, he felt like he had failed her, because he hadn't done enough to save her. Sure, that reaper was no longer bound against its will and forced to trade one life for another by means of a faith healer, but Layla was still dying from a brain tumor. It could be a year from now, it could be six months…hell, it could be tomorrow that her ticket was punched.

The entire case had felt wrong to him-the faith healer, the reaper, the fact that there were actual people out there convinced they were doing God's work when in reality they were hurting others that didn't deserve that kind of suffering. Even he should have died from that heart attack instead of a healthy, young athlete who had been unfortunately chosen to take his place.

Maybe his vote didn't count for much, but Layla Rourke didn't deserve to die. Not that way.

He meant what he said to her. Even if his faith in all things holy was practically nonexistent, he would do his best to pray for her in the small hope that some divine miracle spared her from such a cruel fate. At least he would feel like he was doing _something_ to help her, not hurt her.

If only he knew how.

He was never the praying type, not anymore, though he had a funny feeling that Sam was.

It had been a long time since he got down on his knees to say bedtime prayers. The last time he could remember had been with his mother, when he was just four years old. She always believed in the power of prayer, miracles, and angels that were watching over them. In fact, she had prayed with him the same night the demon set her ablaze above Sam's crib.

Maybe that's why he wasn't the praying type.

Better now than never, while Sam was gone getting his "soda." How did he even get started? Did he really have to get down on his knees or could he just...call out? At the least, he touched his finger to his brow, making the sign of the cross. He felt foolish, and at the same time paranoid, like he was being watched as he sat there, gazing up at the ceiling, wondering if anyone was listening to his most private thoughts.

"He-hem...so, um..." he mumbled and then cleared his throat again.

The heat of his humiliation crawled up the back of his neck. _This is stupid,_ he thought, debating whether to even go through with it. On the heels of that, he reminded himself, _this is for Layla._ He was willing to try for her sake.

"Testing, one, two, three. _O_ - _kay_. My name is Dean Winchester. You probably already know that. Or you should, if you're really up there, sitting on some throne made of fluffy white clouds. I haven't done this in a while, so bear with me. I'm not praying for a happy ending, because I know there's no such thing. Not for people like me. I'm not praying for fame or riches or even my own Playboy Mansion..."

He smirked as he began to fantasize. That had been on his Christmas list ever since he was thirteen. Reluctantly, he shook away the fantasy and refocused on the matter at hand.

"Anyway, I'm praying to anyone who's got their ears on up there...I wanted to save this one girl, Layla Rourke, but it's out of my hands. She's terminally ill and she's been praying to you for months on end. I was ready to trade my life for hers because she deserves to live, far more than I do. I don't really know if I believe in miracles, but...if you are out there...you'll help her. I never ask for anything. Save her the way that I couldn't. If not...then nothing will come out of this babbling and at least I can say I tried. Dean Winchester, signing off."

Not the most graceful end, but how was he supposed to close these prayers? _Sincerely yours, Dean Winchester? From Dean, with love?_

He stopped talking and listened to the creaking of the bed under his weight. He didn't know what he expected-a blinding white light from above, the whisper of God in his ear, a miniature angel on his shoulder-but the world didn't exactly feel any different. Suddenly, Dean felt even more foolish than before.

"Never mind," he sighed. So much for miracles. The moment was lost as the door opened and Sam waltzed in, carrying a can of soda in his hand. He drained the last of it and tossed it in the trash. "How was your soda?" Dean asked, if only to get his mind off of what he just did.

Sam gave him that cinched-brow look that warned him that he was acting strange. If only he knew.

"Fine. It tasted like soda, which is more than I can say for most of the motels we've stayed in." Sam scanned the room, as though searching for something and frowned when he wasn't able to find it. "Did Layla leave? I could have sworn I still heard voices coming from the room."

"Yeah, she left. I was..." Dean thought for a minute while Sam studied him, waiting for an answer, but he couldn't come up with a good lie. Certainly not one that Sam would believe. "Look, I was praying, alright?"

Dean might as well have self-destructed in front of Sam, given how wide his eyes flew and how his mouth dropped open.

"You're gonna swallow a fly, Sam," Dean deadpanned. Sam closed his mouth.

"You? Were _praying_?"

"It's not that big a deal. I regret the fact that there are some things we can't change, like Layla's cancer. So I gave a shot at divine intervention. Guess what? The world's still screwed up as ever." The teasing evaporated from Sam's face, replaced with something closer to admiration.

"You have a good heart, Dean, but I suppose we can't save everyone. All we can do is keep fighting."

It was one of the hardest lessons for any hunter to learn on the job. Even Dad warned them about it from time to time-you can't save everyone, but you fight tooth and nail to save as many lives as you could. It always left Dean wishing there was more that he could have done.

Sam stroked his jaw and that goofy smile returned.

"You know, I never thought I'd see the day when Dean Winchester prayed."

"You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"

"Not a chance."

...

As cliché as it might sound, nearly every night Layla Rourke dreamed that she was rid of her illness. No strings attached, a miraculous recovery, the works. For the first time in a long time, within the blissful illusion of that dream world, she would feel so free, happy, and healthy. Her subconscious would entertain her with fantasies of all of the things she could do, with the promise of a bright future...

Every morning she would wake up and she would feel that sickness festering inside her like a foreign creature slumbering, slowly but surely sucking away her energy and draining her life force. It would continue to do so until nothing remained. She would remember that there was no miraculous recovery. There never would be, if she was finally being honest with herself.

It had been a long battle already, and she wasn't nearly done fighting…but, _oh_ , it was exhausting.

This dream was not like the other dreams she had. For one thing, when she dreamed these days, it was usually set in a hospital with her mother's arms suffocating her like a security blanket while a too-cheerful doctor announced that she had made a miraculous recovery. Sometimes the lingering odor of medicine burned her nose, a scent that was more familiar to her lately than the smell of her own home.

In this case, she inhaled only fresh air. Sunshine, grass, and the sweetness of apples. At first, pure white light blinded her and she held up her hand to shield her eyes. When it dimmed, she realized she was seated on a stone bench in the middle of a radiant garden. The golden sun blazed high in the clear blue sky above her head, the rays warming her pale skin. Flowers of all kinds and colors blossomed around her bare feet, tickling her with their leaves and petals. Somewhere in the towering trees, birds sang sweet melodies. From the leaves dangled an assortment of tempting red and green fruit, and she might have accepted one, if they were not beyond her reach.

It was too good to be true, and so she had no doubt that it was a dream this time. It reminded her of paintings she had seen of the Garden of Eden, of a sprawling paradise she would only see after she was finished with life on earth.

It was peaceful and quiet, with only the sound of her frail heartbeat in her ears. There was no sense of time. She was alone to take solace in the garden's beauty, or so she thought, until she sensed a presence sharing that bench with her.

How long he had been there with her, she did not know. It was not someone she recognized, and yet she felt no rush of fear. Even if she had always been on the shy side, strangers were not so much a threat as they once appeared to her. He would not harm her, definitely not any worse than the tumor in her brain. For some reason, she trusted him and did not shy away from his presence.

It was the beauty of this garden, she realized. Surely, no evil force could be so comfortable in such a place.

"There is something infinitely special about a midsummer afternoon in a garden such as this," he said without meeting her eye. It seemed he was lost in his admiration for the natural beauty that surrounded them. Or perhaps he did not wish to spook her. His voice was deep and yet gentle at the same time. Soothing. It reminded her of the lull of a river. The water would hum as it flowed and sparkle when the sunlight kissed it. Come to think of it, that was the exact color of his eyes-the crystal blue of the river's running water, glowing with some magnificent light. Those were the kind of eyes that held sadness as well, eyes that were wise because they had seen too much.

She wondered if he was waiting for an answer.

"It's peaceful and beautiful," she agreed, sitting up straighter as she found her voice. She winced when she heard how breathless she sounded, and not simply out of awe. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him dip his head in the manner of prayer.

There were dozens of questions in her mind, racing to her parted lips all at once- _who are you? where are we? is this real?_ -but she dared not disturb him if he was in the middle of prayer. Every one counted, she believed. She was patient; she didn't feel the need to hurry, like she often felt when reminded that she only had six months left to live. Since the news of her brain tumor, she felt like there simply wasn't enough time, that every second was precious.

Here, in this enchanting place, she felt calm. Here she had all the time in the world.

So she waited patiently for him to lift his head again to admire the garden. Only then did she wring her hands together and dare to let those questions flood forward as water rushes from a broken dam.

"Who...who are you? You're not...God?"

He chuckled softly, as though she told an amusing joke.

"That would be quite the compliment, but no, I am not God. My name is Castiel. Know that I am an Angel of the Lord and that I am here to aid you."

At the sound of his celestial title, she gasped and panicked, her heart hammering in her chest. If he was an angel, then this must be her time to go. This was the end. She felt both afraid and relieved. The battle was finally over, wasn't it?

"Contrary to popular belief," he said, as if reading her thoughts, "I am not the kind of being that will lead you to Heaven when the time comes. I can _heal_ you."

Her breath caught in her throat. It was everything she had ever hoped for, and yet her lips formed a frown instead of a smile. Her fingers gripped the cool edge of the bench, her stomach flipping, and she waited to see if she would be sick, like she sometimes was when she woke during the night.

This could not be real. It was impossible and she would not get her hopes up only to be disappointed again.

At last, he turned his dark head to look her way, his eyes clouded with confusion.

"I thought you would be happy."

"Oh, I am," she insisted, her voice soaring several notches. She hoped she did not appear ungrateful to him, or make him change his mind about helping her, though she could not deny the truth that had long ago sunk into her heart. "Or...I would be happy, if...This can't be real." He tilted his head.

"Why do you say that?" Layla looked from the so-called angel sitting beside her to the endless paradise that stretched beneath her feet. With every cell in her being, she wanted to believe that this was true.

"An angel visiting me in my sleep...it's almost like an answer to my prayers. Somehow, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm waiting to wake up and realize it was all just a dream." It was tempting to close her eyes and test it, but she was afraid she would not open them again. Or worse, that she would open them to the darkness of her bedroom and the stirring of that poison in her brain.

"This is real, I assure you, but then only you can decide to believe it." Layla folded her clammy hands in her lap and stared down at them rather than the angel.

"There is no cure for cancer," she whispered, more to herself than the angel.

"It is true that humans have not yet located the cure for cancer, but I can ease your suffering. May I?" He shifted closer to her and stretched an arm toward her head. It wasn't until she gave in with a small nod that he touched her forehead. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to feel, but in less than a heartbeat, he took his hand away. She was afraid to ask if it had worked, afraid to hear any more disappointment and apology. "It is done. When you wake up, you'll be well again."

Layla brushed her fingers over her forehead, where he had touched. Her heart began to swell with hope and the warmth of tears stung her eyelids.

"If it's true? How can I thank you?" She earned a brief, light touch on the shoulder.

"You've accepted your fate once before, you've kept faith in the darkest of your days, and you have cherished the miracles bestowed on others even while you waited for your turn. Now cherish this miracle. Never take your life for granted again."

"I won't," she promised. He removed his hand from her shoulder and she sensed that their time was coming to an end, that he was ready to leave her. She caught his sleeve and he glanced back in surprise. Was she not supposed to touch an angel? "Wait. Please. My mother and I have prayed for months on end. I'm not complaining, not after what you've done, but I am curious...why now?"

"I was rather curious myself," he admitted to her, still eyeing the hand that had grasped his arm. She let go. "Dean Winchester prayed for you. I have not heard him pray, _truly_ pray, since he was four years old."

 _Dean,_ she thought, and she could see his face, so heavy and pained with regret and desperation as he told her that he would pray for her. No doubt he had carried some of the blame for not being able to do the impossible and save her.

She had so many more questions for the angel, but she heard a soft flap of wings. The next time she looked up, he was gone.

...

 _Bzzz...Bzzz...Bzzz..._

The phone rattled across the bedside table, dragging Dean out of his uneasy second hour of sleep. Without unfurling his arm from his eyes, he fumbled blindly for the phone. Only when it was in his hand did he pull himself up on his elbow and squint to make out the letters swimming on the glowing screen.

Five in the morning. Wonderful.

If it weren't for the name, he might have tossed the phone away and gone back to sleep. _Layla..._ He had given her his number and told her to keep him informed on her health, even as it declined. Now his pulse raced and his fingers tightened around the phone. What if this was it? What if something happened to her, mere hours after they'd last spoken?

There was nothing worse than not knowing. So he answered.

It was a text message, and a short one at that. _Dean, thank you for the prayer._ He bolted up to full-sitting position in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Then he read the message again.

Only a few short hours ago, he had a moment of weakness and had prayed for her to be saved.

Was this a sign?

"No way," he muttered, tapping the phone closed with his lip. Beating the phone gently against his furrowed brow, he struggled to find some reasonable explanation. Maybe it was a miraculous recovery. People did that, right? Bounced back one fine day and defeated their sickness, even for a little while? Maybe someone had sold their soul to save her, like his father had done for him the time he was dying in the hospital, or like he had done for Sam. Her mother definitely seemed one step shy of such a desperate act.

There was no cure for cancer; Layla Rourke was doomed to die.

Or was she?

Could it be...?

"Nah." He dropped the phone on the table again and curled up in the fetal position, intent on catching even one more hour of sleep. He rolled onto his stomach and punched the pillow. Flipped onto his back and stared up at the off-white ceiling.

Normally, he never liked to sleep on his back in fear of waking up and seeing his loved ones pinned above his head, engulfed in flames. Now he did not see the ceiling at all, too lost in thought. For once, he didn't have any definitive answers and that bothered him.

If Layla's cancer was cured, if she was going to live longer than six months, then it was by definition a miracle. To harbor even a shred of faith was to admit that there was a higher power out there, _up_ there, somewhere, circling invisible above their heads. A higher power that had chosen to let Layla Rourke live and Mary Winchester die brutally at the hands of a demon.

Dean didn't get another wink of sleep.

...

 _ **As always, I want to take this moment to thank those that have read and reviewed lately: thank you I-Heart-Star-Trek and Grace Motley. I appreciate all the support and the encouragement to keep writing.**_


	26. Heroes

_**Heroes**_

 _You know what video would have gone viral? If we still had it? When you were five and you dressed as Batman…._

Even though it was well past Halloween, little Sam and Dean Winchester raced around their yard in their Batman and Superman costumes. Their father always claimed they could live in their Halloween costumes if he let them.

Sometimes Sam and Dean would spend the afternoon pretending to fight against each other, to see which one was the better hero. Dean always won. More often than not, they fought _together_ , defending their home from make-believe villains. On those days, they both won.

 _…and you jumped off the shed. 'Cause you thought you could fly…._

"Hey, Sammy, watch this!"

Sam paused in the middle of a punch that he liked to believe would have sent the Joker flying. He turned to find his big brother climbing up on a pile of logs next to their shed. From there, Dean figured out how to reach the roof and he stood on the edge of it proudly, fists on his hips, red-and-blue cape flapping in the wind, looking every bit like the real Superman to Sam far below.

"Betcha I can fly just like Superman!" To Sam's amazement, Dean dared to jump off the roof and landed hard on his two feet in the tall grass.

"Whoa…." Sam murmured, lost in awe of his big brother.

 _Only after you jumped first!_

Monkey see, monkey do. That's what their father said sometimes when Sam decided to copy his big brother. At the age of five, it was something Sam liked to do often, trying to do everything his brother could do.

It looked fun to jump off the roof and pretend to fly like a real superhero. After all, he wasn't just little Sam Winchester this afternoon; he was _Batman_. So he followed Dean's example and climbed up on the pile of logs, boosting himself up onto the roof of the shed.

"I wouldn't do that, Sammy," Dean warned him from below, the first note of concern in his voice. He shielded his eyes against the sun to watch his younger brother balance on the corner of the shed. "Everyone knows Batman can't fly!"

"Oh, yeah?" Sam retorted, puffing out his chest.

 _Well, I didn't know that! I broke my arm!_

Sam jumped into open air.

 _Snap!_

Unlike Dean, he didn't land on his feet. Instead, he landed sharply on his side and heard a terrifying _snap_ beneath him. Tremendous agony shot up the length of his arm, all the way to his shoulder. It was the worst pain Sam had ever felt, white-hot, terrible enough to bring crocodile tears immediately to his eyes.

Dean had seen the entire thing and half-ran, half-slid to his brother's side. He fell on his knees beside Sam as he rolled on the ground, his face streaked with dirt and tears.

"It's okay, Sammy, I'm here. I can fix this," Dean said, his voice rising with panic. Sam barely heard anything over the rush of blood in his ears and his own frantic sobbing. Dean's hands hovered over Sam's arm, cradled protectively against his chest, as if he was afraid to touch it the wrong way and cause his brother worse agony.

Finally, Dean made a quick decision and lifted Sam in his arms. Sam bit down on his lip to stifle his cry.

 _I know you did! I drove you to the ER on my handlebars!_

Dad wasn't home. Dad hadn't been home since the afternoon before, when he rushed out to handle another job. Being nine years old, the only mode of transportation Dean had was his bike, so he balanced his brother between the handlebars and pedaled as fast as his feet would allow.

"Hold on, Sammy—we're almost there," Dean yelled over the wind as his bike swerved from street to street, corner to corner, narrowly missing the oblivious passersby. Sam gripped the handlebars with his good hand while tucking the broken one close to his chest, sniffling.

"I-It hurts, Dean," he sobbed, his cheeks blazing and raw from the salty moisture.

"I know! Hold on!"

Sam began to sob again as the hospital loomed into view. It must have been a strange sight—Superman carrying Batman into the ER for a broken arm. If it was anyone else, Dean would have made a joke out of it. He was in no laughing matter as he abandoned his bike on the sidewalk outside, wheels still spinning, and carried Sam into the ER, shouting on the top of his lungs for help.

All he could think was: _Dad is gonna kill me._

 _Good times…._

"Where is he? Where is my son?" They heard John Winchester coming long before they saw him.

The green curtain was raked aside, the rings screeching along the metal rod, and there he was, with a whole troop of nurses hot on his heels. His irritated eyes softened as he surveyed little Sam in that hospital bed, his arm bound in a cast. He didn't look so afraid now, especially after Dean assured him that he would be the coolest kid in school for having a cast. Everyone would want to sign it, but Dean made sure he was the first one, borrowing one of the nurse's black Sharpies to draw the symbol for Batman.

Dean slumped in the only chair beside his bed. He never left his brother's side for a second.

The nurses dispersed, giving John Winchester a moment alone with his two sons. While Sam admired his cast, Dean kept his head bent low, avoiding eye contact and expecting the worst. Superman had never looked so small or helpless.

"You alright, Sam? You're strong, aren't you?" their father inquired. Sam nodded. Dean could practically read it in John's face as he considered the damage: _it could have been worse._ "What happened?"

"Dean and I were playing Superman and Batman, and we tried to fly, so we jumped off the roof and—"

"You _jumped_ off the _roof?_ " their father bellowed. Dean winced.

"It was the shed, not the house," Dean clarified, as if that distinction somehow made it better. Unfortunately, speaking up only brought down his father's wrath on his own head.

"I thought I told you to take care of your brother, not break him," John snapped, as if Sam were a precious commodity. Dean bowed his head in shame.

"Dad, Dean didn't—" Sam started, but Dean cut him off midway.

"Sorry, sir. It won't happen again." John Winchester nodded once. That must have been music to his ears.

As soon as they arrived home from the hospital, John Winchester moved the pile of logs away from the shed. His father never said so out loud, but Dean assumed it was his way of making sure that he could keep his word, so that nothing close to that mistake could ever happen again. After all, they had enough to worry about with things that went bump in the night.

…..

 _ **A/N: I'm glad there were people that really enjoyed the last one-shot. Hopefully I can do more of those kinds of one-shots in the future. For now, I would like to take this moment to thank those that reviewed:**_

 _ **Emma Winchester 424: Wow, thank you for the kind reveiw! I believe I am blushing. It makes me happy to know that you enjoyed it.**_

 _ **I-Heart-Star-Trek: Thanks for reading! Every time I rewatch the early seasons of this show, I'm reminded of how much Dean refuses to believe in a higher power and harbors some resentment for the way his mother died. I think that's why "Houses of the Holy" remains one of my favorite S2 episodes-it's so powerful, deep, and lends great insight into Dean's character/views of the world.**_

 _ **Jade Johanson: Welcome to the fandom, then! I actually just got into Supernatural myself this past year and I'm glad I finally found it since it's now one of my favorite shows. I fully agree; I wish they had shown Dean making a sincere attempt to pray for Layla at the end of that episode! Just to see how he would go about it while still doubting the existence of a higher power. You're right-Dean is usually great about keeping promises. Thanks for reading and I'm glad to hear that you enjoyed this!**_

 _ **Lobita: You are most welcome! It's nice to know that this past one-shot held some meaning for you. I don't know if you need to hear this, but I'll say it anyway, in the words of Jared: always keep fighting and remember that you are not alone in this world. (-:**_


	27. Let It Snow

_**A/N: Hello there, readers! Does anyone celebrate Christmas in July? Well, I figured that I would honor it with a little festive one-shot. This one was extremely fun to write. Enjoy it!**_

 _ **Let It Snow**_

It wasn't uncommon for Dean Winchester to have rough wake-up calls. Usually, it was because someone screamed bloody murder, he suffered through nightmare number 666, or Sam shook him awake because of some new supernatural incident in the world that required their attention.

A pair of hands shook Dean awake now, but he could tell they did not belong to Sam. These hands were too gentle.

"Dean. _Dean_!"

A deep voice accompanied the hand on his shoulder, spoken softly at first and then more urgently. With his mind swimming in one of his better recurring dreams-two bikini-clad women rolling in gallons of creamy pie-he didn't recognize the voice belonged to Cas until he was ripped from his sleep. Dean snorted and turned over to peer up at the angel through squinting, sore eyes.

As much as he cared for Cas, it was hardly a fair trade from his sweet dream.

"Dean? Are you awake?"

"No," he mumbled, his head lolling across the pillow. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He didn't even want to know what time it was, but he sensed it was still too early for him to join the waking world. "Someone had better be dying."

"As an angel, I know better than anyone that approximately 151,600 people die every day. Rest assured, Sam is not one of them," Cas replied. Dean only caught that end part as he stifled a wide, tear-inducing yawn and he made a thumbs-up sign.

" _Go-o-ood_. Let me know when someone dies." Dean rolled over, buried his face in the pillow, and was perfectly ready for sleep to wrap him up in oblivion again. Barely three heartbeats passed before he felt Cas' hand shaking his shoulder.

"Dean. _Dean_!" _Snort._

"What? Who died?"

"No one." Dean groaned and punched his pillow.

"Dammit, Cas! How many times do I have to explain to you? I'm only human; I need my four hours!" How was he supposed to get his beauty sleep before hunting with all this interruption? Above him, Cas made a disgruntled noise of his own.

"Allow me to inform you that you've reached your quota of four hours...four hours ago."

Dean opened his eyes and brought the clock close to his face. So the angel was right. At one in the morning, he had dragged his feet to bed. Now it was nine o'clock in the morning. It didn't mean he was happy to sit up and concentrate on whatever Cas was blabbing about. He hadn't even had his coffee yet, but he forced himself to focus.

"Okay. What is it, Lassie? Is the barn on fire?" Even if he understood the reference-doubtful-Cas wasn't pleased about Dean's wise-ass remark. He perched on the edge of Dean's bed and his blue eyes widened, bigger than Bambi's at the moment his mom got shot.

"There is something falling from the sky. And before you ask, it's not an angel."

"Not Lassie, then. More like Chicken Little," Dean murmured, a lazy smirk on his face. Cas glared at him until he held up his hands in surrender. If looks could kill...

"This is serious. This substance...it looks like salt. It has covered every inch of earth that I can see. Are you and Sam planning a worldwide retaliation against demons that you failed to inform me about?"

At first, Dean was confused about what Cas was telling him. Salt? It was a brilliant idea, sprinkling salt everywhere they went to frustrate the demons that lurked in the shadows, but who would spill that much salt? Then it hit him. It was December, one of the coldest he had felt in a long time.

Dean started to chuckle.

"I don't understand," Cas said. "I didn't tell a joke...did I?"

Dean laughed harder, pressing his face into his pillow.

"Oh, you poor, naive little angel," he said, wiping a drop of moisture from his eye. "It's not salt, you idiot. It's _snow_. Perfectly harmless to humans, animals, angels, and demons alike. Unless they actually do salt the roads-then the demons are screwed."

In his time as a hunter, Dean had come to appreciate the winter season. There was always a shortage of demons running amok during blizzards due to the salted roads.

"Snow?" Cas pronounced the word like it was foreign on his tongue. Dean sat up straighter, his eyebrows rising high in surprise.

"You're kidding me. You live in the sky and you've never seen snow before?" Cas shrugged.

"We never had snow in Heaven. At least, it was never part of the Heavens I preferred to visit." He scooted closer to Dean, his face shining with childlike wonder. "What is it like?"

Dean searched his sleepy brain for a minute. He never had to explain the idea of snow to anyone before. With his eyelids still heavy, it was tempting to tell Cas to go out there and find out for himself, but it wouldn't be fair to the little angel he'd come to respect as his own brother.

"Cold. Wet. Sometimes it's heavy; other times, it's soft as those clouds you feather-brains sit on. You can catch the snowflakes on your tongue, throw snowballs at people, make snow angels...and shovel. That part sucks."

For a brief second, Cas didn't look like he believed what Dean was saying. That was the same curious look Sam got as a kid when Dean read to him about the Knights of the Round Table. Fascinated and skeptical at the same time.

"Snow angels? I assure you that my Father did not create me out of wet powder." Yet Cas glanced down at his hands, inspecting them, just in case. "Not that I know of."

Simply telling him about the snow would not be enough, Dean realized. No matter how he described it, Cas would never fully understand or appreciate it. It'd be easier just to show him.

Moaning to the high heavens, Dean pulled himself to the edge of the bed, yanked on a pair of jeans that he had left on the floor, and tugged on his boots. All the while, Cas watched him with mild interest and then followed closely behind as they ventured outside.

Just as the angel foretold, the earth was blanketed in a pure white layer of fresh snow, with tiny snowflakes fluttering on the wind and kissing their eyelashes. The chill in the air forced them to bundle up inside their coats.

Dean waded past the white-dusted Impala and stopped in an undisturbed field of snow. As Cas observed him, Dean motioned to the white ground and then fell flat on his back. He flapped his arms up and down, and spread his legs open and closed. Five minutes later, he got a helping hand up from Cas and the pair of them gazed down at the result: seemingly, a figure in a skirt with a pair of wings.

"See? Snow angel." Cas nodded, right before Dean pushed him forward. It was enough to make him stumble, but not fall to the ground. "Well? Let's see what you can do, rookie." Cas stared at the snowy ground at his feet and then his precious trench coat. Dean rolled his eyes. "Don't worry. The white stuff comes off."

Hesitantly, Cas sank down on his knees and laid out on his back. For a moment, he was stone-still and staring up at Dean, as if he had already forgotten how to make a snow angel. Dean did a jumping jack and Cas copied his motions. Something black spread across the ground and Dean realized that Cas had spread his wings. They, too, flapped across the snow, an extension of his human limbs creating a whirlwind of frost. Dean frowned.

"That's cheating," he protested.

"How is it cheating? You're a human; I'm an angel."

With Dean's help, he rose from the ground and tucked his wings back in. Dean brushed the snow off the back of his trench coat. The two admired their snow angels, with Cas' being much bigger than Dean's, thanks to those real wings.

"My first snow angel." Cas smiled proudly and Dean clapped him on the shoulder. He didn't have the heart to tell him that it wouldn't last long, depending on if they got more snow or the current layer melted away.

"Lesson number two: catching snowflakes. It's easy. You stick your tongue out like this-" Dean bent his head back and stuck out his tongue until a few snowflakes sprinkled it. "-and catch them. Simple."

Cas bent his head back and mimicked the gesture, opening his mouth wider than he needed to, and exposing his tongue to pluck the snowflakes from the air.

Dean's head fell into his hand and he snickered at the ridiculous sight of Cas chasing down snowflakes with his tongue. He would be willing to bet every penny he had to his name that none of Heaven's angels had done this before.

When a snowflake finally landed on Cas' tongue, he smacked his lips together, savoring the taste.

"It's water," he noted, almost disappointed. _What did you think it was made of? Beer?_ Dean thought, amused. _I wish._

"Yeah, that's all it is. They all taste the same, but every snowflake is supposed to be unique. Kind of like us humans." The thought seemed to intrigue Cas, his blue eyes roaming from one dancing snowflake to the next.

"Perhaps I should collect them. Preserve their beauty." Dean snorted.

"Good luck with that, genius." He caught another flake on his finger and it melted away into a drop of water that rolled across his skin. The sight wiped the fascination from Cas' face.

"Beautiful, unique...and yet such short lives. Precisely like you humans," Cas said mournfully. It was rather uncomfortable for Dean to see Cas so disheartened. In times like these, he was like a poor, wounded puppy denied a bone. Quickly he moved onto the next lesson, if only to cheer him up a little.

"Now about the snowballs-" He bent to pack the snow into one round, frozen ball. This kind of snow was certainly thick enough for it.

Before he could even demonstrate how it worked, preferably by shoving it in Cas' face, an equally wet lump of snow smashed into the back of Dean's head. Chunks of ice slid down his neck and made him shiver. Spinning around, he spotted Sam whistling innocently. As if anyone else could have been the culprit.

Suddenly, Dean had a much better target in mind.

" _That_ is how you throw a snowball," Sam called out to them, his grin daring Dean to retaliate. Two could play at that game. Or, in this case, three.

"One question, Cas," Dean said, the snowball bouncing in his hand, "whose side are you on?"

"Side?"

"That's right. We're going to war."

Dean flung the snowball while Sam was busy packing another one, and it smashed his brother's chest. Being so tall, Sam wasn't exactly an easy target to miss. Dean did a running slide toward Baby, using the hood for cover. Out in the open, Cas was being pelted by snowballs. Making a snap decision, the angel ducked behind the car with Dean, who shot his arm in the air in a gleeful fist-pump.

"Alright, I'm giving the commands here. Our enemy is one smart, resourceful son of a bitch-don't let your guard down! You make the snowballs and I'll throw. Keep your head down, got it?"

"Got it," Cas echoed, already getting to work on a pile of snowballs.

Dean peeked over the hood of the car to search for Sam. At the moment, he was using the corner of the building as cover while crafting a sloppy snow fort, barely high enough to shield his long legs. Dean smirked. Pathetic. Two against one, with Baby as protection; they had this snowball fight in the bag.

Dean grabbed one ball of snow after another and hurled it straight toward Sam's miserable excuse of a fort. The first one landed on Sam's shoulder, but then he learned to dive out of the way, the snowballs whizzing past his head. He tried to crouch behind the fort, but it only reached his knees, and Dean successfully threw a snowball into Sam's forehead, flecks of white snow clinging to his wild mane of hair.

Too soon, Dean ran out of ammo. He glanced over at his partner in crime to see what the holdup was. Cas was taking his sweet time packing each snowball, patting it delicately and molding it until it was smooth and round.

"Cas!" Dean snapped, startling the angel into dropping the snowball. It was so tightly-packed that it simply rolled across the frozen ground. "They don't need to be perfect! Let's go, let's go, let's go!" Cas picked up the pace and they had a good-sized pile going again.

"Hey, Cas!" Sam shouted across no-man's land.

"Sam?" Cas answered, but Dean held up his hand, warning him not to move. This snowball fight was no different than the many hunts he and his brother had done together. Sam was smart as hell and must have known that Cas was the weakest link of their little team. _Remember,_ Dean recalled their father once saying to his inexperienced sons, _you're hunting together. That means you're only as strong as your weakest link._

It had to be a trap.

"Cas... _help_!" Sam cried out again, sounding distressed. "The snow...I...I'm stuck!" Alarm flashed behind Cas' blue eyes, quick as lightning, and he scrambled to his feet.

"No, don't-" Dean exclaimed, trying to tug him back down by the sleeve, but it was already too late. The second Cas popped up from behind the car, a snowball soared and slammed into Cas' face. The force of it sent him reeling backwards, and he landed on his butt in the snow. Dean made a _yikes_ face as Cas wiped the clumps of snow from his jaw and hair.

"I've been hit," he moaned, glancing over at Dean with a blend of frustration, betrayal, and genuine astonishment. Dean showed him no sympathy.

"What did I say about keeping your head down? Are you gonna lay there and die or get up and fight? You know what you gotta do! Hit him back!"

Dean took Cas' hand and dropped a perfectly-packed snowball into his palm. Cas nodded firmly like a soldier obeying his commander and let the snowball fly blindly in Sam's direction. It barely flew over half of no-man's land before plummeting to the ground. Sam's laughter invaded their ears.

"O-kay, that was obviously the practice throw. Try again. With feeling."

He armed Cas with another snowball. This time, Cas dared to peek over the hood of the car, so he could see where he was aiming. He dodged one of Sam's snowballs, splattering in the form of a star on Baby's frosted hood, and then he tossed his own. This one landed in Sam's face. Sam tumbled out of view, though they heard his cursing.

"Dammit! Take it easy, Cas!" Sam yelled. Dean leaned against Baby and cackled, patting Cas triumphantly on the back.

"That felt...good," Cas admitted, wearing a wide grin. As Cas grabbed a snowball, eager for another throw, Dean noticed Sam trying to half-sneak, half-crawl across no-man's land. _Oh, I don't think so!_ He pummeled him with several rapid snowballs, forcing him to retreat.

"The enemy is trying to infiltrate our territory! We need to end this," he declared. He took a moment to survey the lay of the land and weigh his options. "Here's what we're going to do: grab as many snowballs as you can carry and flank him on both sides," Dean hissed over his shoulder. With two against one, and both being smaller than Sam, it should be simple to accomplish.

Dean gestured for Cas to go left while he planned to go right. He held up three fingers to Cas' face. Two. One. _Go,_ he mouthed.

Jumping up from behind Baby, he dashed across no man's land, fast as his legs could carry him. There was no turning back now. Of course, Sam saw him coming and began throwing snowballs furiously. Dean ran in serpentine fashion to avoid being hit.

He had no idea where Cas was, and he wasn't about to slow down to check. When he made it to the building, he pressed his back against the wall to catch his breath. _One...two...three..._ He leaped out in front of Sam's pathetic fort—and got a face full of snow. It slid down his shirt, or maybe Sam had stuffed it there. Some of it also slid down his throat. _I seriously hope that snow wasn't yellow,_ Dean thought with disgust.

Sam was laughing his ass off.

"Come on, Dean, you didn't think I saw that coming? _Gah!_ "

Now Sam was the one caught off-guard as Cas dumped a snowball right on top of his head. Dean grinned and got his momentum back. The two of them surrounded Sam, flinging snowball after snowball while Sam could only concentrate on one threat at a time. With Sam's abnormal height working against him, he was the perfect target, helpless to hide or defend himself other than shielding his face with his hands.

"Okay, okay! I give up! You guys got me!" Dean and Cas ceased fire, though Dean kept his guard up, a snowball ready in hand in case Sam pulled some kind of trick.

"You surrender?"

"Yeah, Dean. That's what giving up means." Dean shook his head.

"Nope, not good enough." He let the snowball drop to the ground, just so he could dig out his cell phone from his jeans pocket. Cas kept his stare locked on Sam, never blinking, waiting for him to try something funny. Stepping up beside Sam, Dean held the phone in front of their faces, with the blinking red light signaling a recording. "Say it, Sammy."

Sam groaned.

"Seriously, Dean? What are we, five?"

"Say. It. Or Cas lets the snowball fly." Cas raised the snowball, ready for Dean's command. Sam held up his hands again, his shoulders sulking.

"Dean Winchester beat me in a snowball fight," he muttered.

"And?" Dean elbowed him in the gut.

"And so did an angel."

"Of the Lord," Cas prompted him. Sam rolled his eyes.

"That part was implied, Cas." The snowball rose higher. "And an angel of the Lord!"

"And?" Dean insisted.

" _And_ today I am not a Winchester."

"What are you?"

"I am...oh, come on, Dean, is this really necessary?" Dean elbowed him again.

" _Say it._ " Sam fidgeted in place, looking everywhere except that damn blinking red light.

"I am...a…Losechester. There, happy?"

"Thrilled." Dean stopped the recording and pocketed his phone. That video might come in handy as blackmail one day. The name _Losechester_ was an old inside joke between them, something they had to say whenever one of them lost a game as kids. Ironically, Sam was the one that came up with it when he beat Dean at Scrabble.

At long last, the three of them headed inside for warmth, with Dean and Cas gloating over a job well done.

"And this, Cas, is one of the best parts about the snow—the reward of hot cocoa afterwards," Dean announced, rushing ahead of Sam and Cas. He could practically taste the creamy, chocolatey goodness burning its way down his throat even now. With tiny marshmallows.

"I like snow," Cas told them.

"Yeah, you say that now," Dean replied. Then he paused. "Oh, and one more thing you should know: never lick an icy pole."

"Why would I—?"

"Just don't do it. Trust me."

...

 _ **Merry Christmas in July! As always, I'd like to take this moment to thank those that have reviewed: TotalAlaskan, Emma Winchester 424, Grace Motley, and Lobita. Thank you so much for giving this collection of one-shots over 50 reviews so far. (-;**_


	28. Promise

_**A/N: Happy Tuesday, everyone! I hope your Tuesday turns out better than Sam Winchester's in that one episode chock full of deja vu. For now, I thought you might like a nice one-shot of baby Sam and Dean.**_

 _ **I'd also like to take a moment to thank those who have reviewed recently: Emma Winchester 424, I-Heart-Star-Trek, TotalAlaskan, Kirsten, Lobita, and Grace Motley. Thank you for all the support!**_

 _ **Promise**_

"Say hi, Dean," his mother sometimes told him when she let him put his small hands on her belly. That was where his baby brother or sister lived. Clad in a spring green dress that matched her eyes, her belly resembled a big, round watermelon.

At four years of age, Dean didn't understand how it all worked. His mom explained to him that his baby brother or sister was in there, inside her belly right this minute, even if he couldn't see it yet. How did the baby even get in there? There was only one way he could think of. Mom must have eaten his baby brother or sister. He couldn't imagine it would taste good.

Dean didn't know how to feel about having a new baby brother or sister in the house. In those times, when his mom let him touch her belly, he grew excited at the thought of meeting them, whoever they might be. Finally he would have someone else to play with. On the other hand, he didn't like the thought of some new kid moving in and taking over his stuff.

Splaying his fingers over his mom's belly, he felt a dull pressure against his palm, swift as a fluttering heartbeat.

"Did you feel that, Dean? That's the baby kicking. It's saying hello to you," she said, ruffling his hair. Dean's smile widened.

"He's going to be a fighter just like you," his dad added, winking down at him as he hugged Mary from behind, his arms resting comfortably over the swell of her belly. "Come to think of it, I remember your mom saying you didn't _stop_ kicking once you learned how."

Dean couldn't remember if he had kicked that much; in fact, he couldn't remember anything at all of the time spent in his mom's belly. He wondered if this baby would.

"What's his name?" Dean asked. His mom and dad exchanged unsure looks.

"Well, sweetheart, we don't know if it's a boy or a girl yet," his mom explained. Sometimes Dean would overhear them arguing about it—not a real fight, but a playful one. Mom wanted it to be a girl. Dad was convinced it was another boy. "If it's a girl, it'll be Samantha. If it's a boy, then it'll be Sam."

Dean stared hard at his mom's round belly, as if he could see through it and into it, where his baby brother or sister was curled up and sleeping. Then he smiled up at his parents with the full confidence of a child.

"It's my brother, Mom. I know it. It's Sam." Of course his mom humored him while his dad pumped his fist in the air, gloating about the vote being two against one. Nothing they said could change Dean's mind about the fact that he had a little brother on the way. Somehow, he just _knew._

He felt the baby kick again. It was the hardest one he felt so far, and even his mom gasped in surprise, her hand also flying to her belly.

"Whoa, that was a big one! I guess the baby's excited to meet you, too."

 _I'm here, Sam,_ Dean silently promised, never taking his hand away until his dad picked him up to play a game of airplane.

…

Then came the day when his parents brought home the new baby.

It was more of a frightening experience than a happy one. He remembered his mom waking up in the middle of the night, moaning and crying out in pain, and his dad carrying her out to the car in his arms. After they got to the hospital, Dean wasn't allowed to see her, so Dad called Pastor Jim to come stay with him at home until the baby was born.

Dean had been right about having a baby brother. As they promised, his parents named him Sam.

After that, it was nothing but crying, throwing up, and the stench of smelly diapers throughout the house. Every time Dean showed the baby his favorite Batman doll and asked if he wanted to play, all he did was wail and drool all over it. Whenever he took his Batman toy back, the baby cried even worse, until he was red in the face, and wouldn't stop until Mom picked him up.

Crybaby.

Somehow, having a baby brother wasn't as fun as he imagined it would be. Sam only ever seemed to be hungry or angry or sleepy. Maybe this one was broken. Dean wondered if it was like getting a broken toy from the store and whether his parents could get a new one.

There was also the way Sam claimed every ounce of his parents' attention.

Before Sam was born, Dean was the only child in the house and his parents seemed to have all the time in the world for him. When Dean asked his dad to play airplane or catch in the yard now, he always had to put it off to change Sam's diaper, or give Sam a bath, or feed Sam his gross green baby food even if most of it ended up on Sam's chubby cheeks and fingers.

His mom was the same way. Usually cheerful and bright, her eyes were red and tired, though never too tired to go to Sam when he cried in the night. He even caught her singing "Hey, Jude" to him as she laid him down for a nap. That was supposed to be _his_ lullaby.

One day, when Sam was crying for the hundredth time in a row, Dean went into his nursery, crouched down beside the bars of his crib, and stuck out his tongue.

"You're no fun. All you do is cry. You're supposed to be my little brother that plays with me and does what I say, but all you do is steal my parents and my room and my lullaby. They were mine first."

Dean stuck out his tongue again. Surprisingly, Sam stopped crying. Through the bars of his crib, the baby's big, wet hazel eyes watched Dean with endless fascination, like he was some kind of strange science project. Dean didn't like it, so he stuck out his tongue again and held it there. Sam burst into high-pitched giggles and reached for Dean's tongue.

"What? You think that's funny?" Sam giggled again and clapped his hands together before they curled into tiny fists.

When Dean reached through the bars, Sam grabbed ahold of his hand and held on with all his infant might. It caught Dean by surprise and he didn't know what to do, so he simply held Sam's hand.

"See? He likes you."

Dean gasped and spun around as his mom's gentle voice floated into the room. He didn't know how long she had been leaning there in the doorway, watching him and the baby. How many times had she scolded him for sticking out his tongue? Nonetheless, his mom was smiling now.

"Do you want to hold him?" she asked.

Dean hadn't held his brother yet. His mom bent over the crib and scooped baby Sam into her arms. She motioned her chin to the antique rocking chair in the corner of the nursery and Dean hopped up on it. She waited until he gave a nod before she placed Sam in his arms.

"Be gentle. Support the head. There, you've got it." It took Dean a bit of fidgeting to get used to Sam's weight against his chest. At the same time, he was afraid to move too much in case he hurt Sam, as though he were one of his mom's glass china dolls that could shatter in his hands at any second.

"Hi, Sammy," Dean said softly, gazing down into his brother's pudgy, red face. He felt foolish for not having anything better to say after his earlier complaints. Plus, he figured out early on that babies weren't really talkative. The only words Sam knew were _goo, gah,_ and _wah._

His mom, on the other hand, had plenty to say. She knelt down beside the rocking chair and brushed Dean's hair back from his forehead, the way he secretly liked.

"Dean, honey, I know you feel that your baby brother has taken your place," she whispered.

Dean stared down at Sam so he wouldn't have to meet his mom's tired eyes. So she did hear everything. All of a sudden, his cheeks grew warm and he felt embarrassed that she heard him complaining so much.

"Believe me, nothing can be further than the truth," she continued. "There's room in our hearts for both of you boys, but you also need to find room in your heart for Sam. He's your little brother and he'll always be by your side. He's going to love you more than anything in this world. One day, he'll look up to you, he'll turn to you when he can't turn to anyone else, and he'll carry you after you can't carry him anymore. Make sure you do right by him and he'll do the same for you. That's what family is for."

His mom leaned over and kissed his forehead. In turn, Dean lifted Sam to kiss his head. Like the Grinch in that Christmas cartoon, he felt his heart grow.

"I'll protect you, Sammy. Always. I promise."

 _ **...**_


	29. Cassie

_**A/N:**_ _ **Thank Chuck it's Friday! Before I present this one-shot to you, my prayers go out to those who are currently suffering in France or have lost loved ones recently. I hope this one-shot cheers up anyone who needs comfort at the moment.**_

 _ **Cassie**_

There was always a fine line between pleasure and pain for Dean when it came to taking a shower.

The act of showering itself was pure pleasure, of course-a sheet of warm rain rolling down his bare back, shaking loose his tense muscles, and, hell, sometimes he even sang. As a hunter, hot showers were not always part of the package when he stayed in crappy motels to save what little money he had to his name, and so those moments when he did have access to a hot shower were precious.

The pain came from the fact that he was completely vulnerable in the process of taking a shower. One of John Winchester's many lessons was to never be caught vulnerable; always be on your guard. And, boy, did he drive that lesson home during Dean's childhood when he staged a fake attack on him in the middle of a shower to see how he would react. He had failed that lesson, since his reaction was to rip down the shower curtain and get tangled inside it on the floor of the tub.

The pain also came after the shower whenever he stepped out of the bathroom to realize Sam had messed with something of his while he wasn't there to defend it. Who knew what his little brother would do to his bed, his car, even his clothes while he bathed unawares?

Being brothers, it was something Dean had done to Sam from time to time for the pure fun of it. Countless times he had doused Sam's clothes with itching powder, used his laptop and gotten it frozen on a porn site, used his toothbrush to reach a terrible itch on his back, you name it. He didn't put it past Sam to get even.

This time, Dean didn't need to do much searching before he discovered what Sam was up to.

Once he emerged from the bathroom dripping and cloaked in sweet-smelling mist but fully dressed, he saw Sam lounging on his bed with Dean's cell phone in his hand. Sam's eyes were glued to the small glowing screen as he shamelessly invaded it.

"Hey!" Dean shouted and raced for his brother to retrieve the phone. Sam was faster and rolled off the bed before Dean could catch him. Dean stumbled and landed face-first on the bed.

"Oh, hey, Dean. Tell me. Do you even remember half of these women?" Sam inquired without removing his eyes from the screen. Never one to give up, Dean pursued Sam around the cramped motel room. "Did you ever call them after winning their numbers?"

"Why? You aiming for sloppy seconds?" Dean lunged for the phone, but Sam held him at bay with a hand to the face. "Sam, damn it, give me my phone!" Frustratingly, Sam ignored his demand and read off the list of contacts.

"Amber, Ariel, Brandy, Candy...Candy with an _I_ …Candy with a _K_ …." As he rattled off each name Dean realized, with far less guilt than any morally sound man should have, that he could not place a face to any of them. Not a date or location as to when and where he met them. Not a single ring of a bell.

He wondered if they remembered him.

"Sam, I swear to God—" he protested and dove for the phone again. Of course, Sam spun on his heel and dodged the attack, rather gracefully for such a gigantic human being.

"Cassie— _that_ one I know—"

Suddenly, Sam paused and seemed to see Dean for the first time. There was a spark of intelligence behind Sam's hazel eyes that suggested he had finally figured something out. Dean was almost afraid to ask, and too busy contemplating his next form of attack.

"What?" he asked hesitantly. That goofy grin slid over Sam's lips, like he knew something Dean didn't. Dean got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hated whenever Sam got that look because it usually meant bad news for him. A rotten prank, a bad idea, some hilarious video he could post online as blackmail...

" _What_ , Sam?" Dean barked.

"I'm just thinking..." His voice trailed away, leaving Dean in the dark.

"Thinking? Yeah, I like to live dangerously, too. Sometimes I put extra whipped cream on my pie and stick my face in it."

While Sam was puzzling out whatever he was puzzling out, the phone was in his hand, in his loosening grip, ripe for the taking. Dean edged closer to his brother, slowly, like he was trying not to spook a horse, and snatched up the phone.

" _Hah_! Don't touch my stuff!"

Sam never flinched.

"Seriously, Dean. I just realized something funny. Your ex-girlfriend's name is Cassie."

"Yeah, so?" Dean tucked his phone deep in his pocket for safekeeping. He could not figure out where Sam was going with this line of logic.

" _So_...didn't you used to call _her_ Cass, too?" That sinking feeling in his stomach turned into a canyon. Dean opened and closed his mouth, but no words came out. Sam was smug. "You dated a girl named Cass...and then became best friends with an angel named Cas. Wow."

"I will kill you slowly," Dean grumbled. Anything to make him stop speaking such nonsense. The threat had no effect on Sam, who burst out laughing.

"Cass and Cas. Huh. Isn't that ironic? Is that, like, a turn-on for you?"

"Shut up, Sam."

"Not only that, but you and Cass were intimate the last time you saw her, right?"

"Last warning, Sam." His brother shrugged.

"Must be fate. Guess she was the wrong Cas for you." Dean balled his fists.

"Thanks. Now every memory I have of Cassie will be weird and uncomfortable because all I'll be thinking about is an angel in a trench coat."

"Oh, wait! What do you think is Cass' best feature? See, now you have to stop and wonder if I mean your ex-girlfriend or your angel." This brought on another round of giggles from Sam, who was nearly bent over the bed from the exertion. "You know what? I'll call Cas and fill him in on the news that you like people named Cas."

"Sam, don't you dare—" To Dean's annoyance, Sam took his own cell phone from his jeans pocket and punched a few keys. There was a brief dial tone and Dean heard the familiar trill of Cas' voice on the other end.

"Sam? What's wrong?" Dean shook his head at the sound of Cas' anxiety. Did their reason for calling always have to be something wrong? Couldn't they just call to say hello or ask how his day was going?

"Hey, Cas, so get this—"

Dean let out a roar and tackled his brother to the ground. The phone flew out of Sam's hand and bounced across the floor. The two of them wrestled, stretched, and crawled in an effort to be the first one to reach it.

"Sam? Dean?" Cas' voice streamed from the phone, becoming increasingly frantic. Sam elbowed Dean in the face with a sharp _crack._ While Dean cursed and staunched the fresh flow of blood spurting from his nose, Sam managed to escape his grasp and fumble for the phone.

"As I was saying," he panted into the phone, "Dean's old girlfriend's name is Cass, too! What a coincidence, huh?"

"Don't listen to him, Cas! It's not what it sounds like!" Dean bellowed as he picked himself up off the floor, clinging to the bed for support. His voice came out funny and muffled since he was holding his hand over his nose. Sam waved the phone, taunting Dean to come and take it.

"What do you think, Cas? I think you're his type."

Dean launched himself at his brother again, head-butting him to the ground. It was like driving straight into a solid brick wall. Both brothers were stunned for a moment, groaning on the floor. Dean picked up his head, which ached something fierce, and looked around for the phone.

There it was, on the bed. Except Sam was well on his way to catching his breath and regaining his footing.

Thinking fast, Dean grabbed a fistful of Sam's long hair and dragged him back down. That was precisely why Dad taught him to keep his hair short. Their limbs tangled as they scrambled for purchase on the edge of the bed, but their weight brought them back down. They heard the phone flip off the bed, but they had no idea where it landed this time. Cas' voice no longer crackled from the phone.

As the two brothers wrestled, there came the soft sound of flapping wings and a pair of legs materialized beside them. They stopped fighting and glanced up to see Cas standing over them, looking quite concerned.

"I figured this conversation would be easier to finish in person," the angel explained. He tilted his head as he studied them there on the floor, entangled and bruised, with Dean's arm pulled back in preparation to deliver a solid punch to Sam's face. As if Cas' sudden arrival pressed some sort of play button, Dean punched Sam in the face anyway.

" _Aaah_ , what the hell, Dean?" Sam reeled his arm back, ready to throw a punch of his own. "Sam," Cas warned.

"You saw what he did!" Cas shot him that stony glare of his, never blinking, until Sam lowered his arm. Dean snickered. The two brothers got to their feet. Cas returned Sam's phone and healed Dean's bloody nose with the poke of a finger to Dean's forehead. He did the same for Sam, who clutched his stomach where Dean tackled him.

"Now would you kindly tell me what is going on here?" Cas demanded, glancing from one brother to the other.

" _He started it_ ," the boys cried at the same time, pointing fingers at each other. They shared furious stares. Cas sighed.

"Very well. Since you two refuse to act like mature, responsible adults...enough fighting. Sam, stop teasing your brother," Cas stated, using his best authoritative voice. It felt like they had been pulled into the principal's office, and both boys studied their shoes. Dean whispered _ha-ha_ to Sam. "Dean, you shouldn't be so quick to turn on your brother, either. About the coincidence of your girlfriend's name, I am flattered, but as you humans like to say, I don't fly that way."

"Duly noted," Dean said stiffly, struggling past his humiliation.

"Now shake hands," Cas ordered, encouraging the two brothers closer to each other. Sam and Dean swallowed their pride and shook on it. Quick and firm, like Dad taught them. "Now hug." Awkwardly, the brothers embraced each other to please the angel, patting each other's backs. "Now—"

"So help me God, Cas, if you say _now kiss,_ I will kick your feathery ass to the curb," Dean warned, pushing Sam away from him. Sam didn't look thrilled about that train of thought, either.

"Actually, Dean, I was going to say _now let's celebrate with fresh pie_. As a peace treaty."

"Oh." Pie sounded good, after all the trouble he'd been through in the last ten minutes. "In that case, lead the way." As the two brothers followed behind Cas to the door, Sam "accidentally" stepped on Dean's foot and Dean gladly returned it with a slap on the head.

 _I swear,_ Dean thought, patting his pocket to make sure his phone was where it should be, _I am never showering again._

...

 _ **A/N: For the record, I don't really ship Destiel, but I can easily imagine little brother Sam teasing his big brother about this revelation if he ever discovered it. I would like to take this moment to thank Lobita and Grace Motley for leaving such kind reviews.**_


	30. Hound Dog

_**A/N: Hello there, everyone, and happy Tuesday! This is a very special day because it also happens to be Jared Padalecki's birthday! So here's to you, Jared: a truly amazing, sweet, inspiring human being. I hope you never change one bit.**_

 _ **This one-shot takes place during the S9 episode "Dog Dean Afternoon." Basically, I wondered what would have happened if Cas had been in the episode (specifically, as an angel in the episode). This is the result. Enjoy!**_

 _ **Hound Dog**_

Ever since he was five years old, Sam had wanted a dog. With it brought enormous responsibility, but it was also supposed to be a member of the family, a delicate creature that could love you unconditionally and only expect love in return.

In the business of hunting, it was never a luxury they could afford or accommodate on the road. They had to eat in greasy fast food joints, settle down in countless cheap motels, and fill up the Impala, which happened to be a major gas guzzler. They could not care for a dog on top of it all.

By the time he hit his teenage years, it was with a heavy heart that Sam accepted that he would never be one of those normal guys who owned a dog. Never in a million years did he think he would eventually get his wish.

Or that the dog would be his brother.

"Let's _go_ , Dean! Inside or you can sleep in your car tonight! Don't you dare pee on that hydrant! _Ugh_ , dude!" Sam turned away in disgust, holding the door open and beckoning Dean inside before anyone could witness his unusual behavior. He considered buying one of those whistles that only dogs could hear.

Dean trotted inside the motel room, scratching viciously behind his left ear. It had been amusing to watch him try to scratch with his foot, but most humans didn't bend that way easily.

Sam closed the door and dropped the two grease-stained bags of food on the small table in the corner of the room. One bag held a chicken salad for Sam; the other had a fresh bacon cheeseburger and thick slice of pie for Dean. Sam slumped down into his seat and started picking apart his salad. Meanwhile, he booted up his laptop so he could multitask with some research.

It wasn't until his third bite that he realized Dean wasn't sitting across from him or feasting on his heart-attack-waiting-to-happen. There was the sound of rough breathing near his feet and he glanced down to see Dean crouched on the floor, tongue hanging out, panting and eyeing Sam's food.

 _You've got to be kidding me,_ Sam thought, lowering his fork. He had seen his brother behave strangely before, usually on account of some curse or alternate dimension, but this took the cake.

"Feed me," Dean pleaded, following every movement of Sam's fork like he was performing a test for an eye doctor. Sam closed his eyes and counted to five, holding on to what little patience he had left that day. First it had been amusing. Now it was grating on his nerves.

When he opened his eyes, Dean was still crouched there on the floor like a dog.

"Dean, quit begging. I'm not going to hand feed you the hamburger or pie." Come to think of it, the pie was one of Dean's favorites: chocolate crème. "Besides, you can't eat the pie. It has chocolate."

Dean's tongue retracted inside his mouth. A low growl climbed up his throat. Sam gawked at him in alarm. Despite all the times they fought over something stupid, his brother had never _growled_ at him before. The growl turned into a pitiful whine and he sniffed the air for meat and fried onions.

"Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!" he barked. Sam stuffed more salad in his mouth, intent on ignoring Dean until he was over this phase. Unfortunately, that only encouraged Dean to seek more attention by pawing his knee. "Give Dean your food," he demanded hypnotically.

Sam eyed the white bag that remained unopen on the table. He almost gave in, if only to silence Dean on the matter, but there was a sudden knock on their door. Dean went wild, racing over and scratching away at it.

"Sam! Sam! Someone's at the door! Someone's at the door! Sam! Sam!" Dean went on and on, each syllable driving deeper into Sam's skull. He got up and pushed his brother back from the door, since only one of them was keen on answering it.

"Gee, thanks, Dean. I know there's someone at the door! It's probably Cas." He opened the door, just as Cas raised his fist to knock again, nearly hitting Sam in the face. "See?"

Of course, once Dean recognized their angel in a trench coat, he quit his annoying "barking" and became happier than Sam had seen him in a long time.

"Cas! Cas! Cas! Cas!" Dean ran circles around the angel as he stepped into the room. Cas stared at Sam and Dean quizzically, but only Sam offered an apologetic shrug. It was even stranger when Dean collapsed on the floor, stretching out on his back, his arms resembling T-Rex claws, and his foot nudging Cas' leg.

"Sam, what is your brother doing?" Cas asked, observing Dean as he would an unnatural spectacle. Sam sighed.

"I think he wants a belly rub." Dean nudged his leg harder and panted loudly.

"Dean, I have performed many great miracles in your name, but I refuse to cater to your pleasurable indulgences this way," Cas stated and stepped over him. Dean grabbed the hem of his pants, nearly tripping him. He wrapped his arms around Cas' leg, refusing to let go. Every time Cas moved, he dragged Dean along with him like a spoiled child.

Sam buried his head in his hand.

"If I do this, will you be satisfied enough to let go of me?" Cas groaned, losing his patience even faster than Sam had. Then again, patience was never one of Castiel's virtues.

Dean stopped whining and started panting happily again, his tongue hanging from the corner of his mouth. Cas took a seat on the edge of the bed and Dean jumped up to stretch out beside him. Awkwardly, Cas rubbed Dean's belly. Dean's legs thrashed gleefully.

"Ooh yeah, ooh yeah, ooh yeah—" he moaned. Cas' blue eyes were trained on the ceiling and Sam had a feeling he was praying to Heaven for a way out. Dean almost kicked him in the face, bringing him back down to earth. "Ooh, right there…oh, yeah…that feels good…."

Sam grabbed his phone and began to record the strange sight, much to Cas' horror. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up, just in case he needed to one-up his brother someday.

"Don't stop— _ooh_ , right there—ooh, _yeah_ —"

"So, what were you here for, Cas?" Sam asked, out of genuine curiosity.

"Never mind. It will have to wait until your brother recovers from his…condition."

…..


	31. A Late Night Drink

_**A/N: Hey there, lovely readers! Sorry if this one-shot is a bit late. You can blame a lightning storm for that.**_

 _ **This one-shot is a bit serious compared to the ones I usually upload. I got the inspiration to write it after rewatching "Houses of the Holy" from Season 2, particularly how Dean claims to not believe in God or angels due to Mary's death. I always wanted a scene where Castiel acknowledges this and maybe even apologizes for Mary's death. So that's what I did.**_

 _ **I hope you enjoy this one.**_

 _ **A Late Night Drink**_

 _"I get it. You've got faith. I'll tell you who else had faith like that-Mom. She used to tell me when she tucked me in that angels were watching over us. In fact, that was the last thing she ever said to me._

 _"She was wrong. There was nothing protecting her. There's no higher power, there's no God. There's just chaos, and violence, and random unpredictable evil that comes out of nowhere and rips you to shreds."_

Even though it had been years before he met the Winchesters, Castiel never forgot those bitter words once spoken by Dean. It hadn't been difficult to overhear them from Heaven, since the two brothers had been sitting inside a church at the time.

One of the first things Castiel had learned about Dean was that he had no faith in God or the angels. He didn't even believe that angels existed until he saw one with his own two eyes. Somehow, Dean felt that God had betrayed him and failed him, and that resentment stemmed from his mother's brutal death at the hands of Azazel on November 2, 1983.

Something had to be done to inspire faith in Dean once more, considering he had so little hope these days. Castiel was not entirely sure why he could not forget those words or why he felt obligated to mend the pain that had settled over Dean like a second skin.

Perhaps this was the remorse that humans were said to harbor.

One night, Castiel appeared to Dean in Bobby's kitchen, the swift _whoosh_ of his wings the only sound to announce him. Despite the late hour and the shadows pressing against the windows, he knew Dean would not be asleep. After the endless torture he endured in Hell, there were only nightmares waiting for him if he closed his eyes.

It was obviously taking a toll on Dean, both mentally and physically. His bright green eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, his shoulders heavy and caving with too much burden. An empty bottle of whiskey sat within arm's reach even as he downed the last few drops from the shot glass in his hand. There was a single lamp on the table to illuminate his face as he bent his head, poring over the stained, ancient pages of his father's journal for the millionth time.

This was where Dean sought the knowledge and comfort that Heaven was unable to provide. This was everything he knew, everything he had been taught to believe in, all contained in the pages of a sacred book that he never went anywhere without.

This was his Bible.

And yet….

"You won't find any mention of angels in that journal, Dean," Castiel pointed out, finally emerging from the shadows where he had been silently observing Dean in his miserable state. Dean jumped and slammed the journal closed.

"Dammit, Cas! Don't you knock?" he snapped. He reached for his glass, only to be disappointed to find it empty. By the looks of it, he already had one too many drinks. "Yeah, I know there are no angels in there because my dad never met one. Believe me; I know that book like the back of my hand. I'm just… _looking_."

He rested his hand on the cover of that journal, as if he desperately wanted to open it again.

"I'm sorry," Castiel murmured, head bowed. Dean lifted his head and narrowed his eyes. With his back turned to the light, they looked as black as any demon's eyes.

"Regret, huh? I thought you angels couldn't feel that." Castiel remained rigid and expressionless, though he sighed impatiently.

"Just because we are not human does not mean we do not understand the concept of remorse for a wrongdoing. At least, _I_ do."

It had been their original command, given by God Himself, to cherish, protect, and guide these human beings. Anything that threatened humanity did not sit right with Castiel, and it continued to baffle him that the other angels in the garrison no longer felt the same. Or did they ever feel that way at all?

"You're sorry?" Dean repeated, cocking his head to the side. He hummed thoughtfully. "For what?"

"I am sorry that no one was there to protect your mother when it mattered most."

Dean was silent for a long moment, his eyes straying back to the empty glass on the table. Castiel did not know what response he expected—anger, violence, more resentment, perhaps—but Dean proved to be stubborn as always, putting on a brave face to mask his true feelings. He did it expertly, like the cold soldier his father taught him to be.

"Don't worry about it," he said, waving it off. Castiel took a careful step forward. That slight movement made Dean's eyes lock on him again.

"I do. For a very long time, you doubted the existence of God and His angels. You lost faith in us, because nothing could be done to save your mother from her unclean death. I wish…this did not need to happen. I want you to know that, Dean."

Even if his nature as an angel did not allow him to feel as much remorse as he should, Castiel meant every word he said. He only hoped Dean could see that.

"Me, too," Dean muttered. He picked up the empty glass and turned it in his hand, the light skating over the rim.

When the silence stretched on unbroken, Castiel was afraid that was all Dean would give him, until he spoke again.

"Look, I appreciate the condolences. You have no idea how long I've wished I could change what happened. Hell, I'm not going to say I wouldn't change it if I had the chance, but…if none of this happened, if she never died, if my father didn't become obsessed with hunting Yellow-Eyes, if Sam and I had never grown up to be hunters…who's to say we would still be here? We might have lived better lives if Mom had been alive, but all those people me and my brother saved would have died for it. Sam and I might not even have been close brothers if it weren't for every bad thing we fought through together. We would never have gone to Bobby for help and probably wouldn't have him as a second father now. And you…who's to say you and I would have met?"

Dean put down the glass and did not touch it again.

"That's positive thinking, Dean." His expression hardly changed when he met Dean's green eyes, but inside, he was impressed. Dean spoke like someone who had given it too much thought over too many miserable nights.

Suddenly, Castiel could picture Dean in bed at night, in one of the countless cheap motels they stayed in, wide awake while the rest of the world slept soundly. Always laying on his stomach so the ceiling would not be the first thing he saw in the morning, in case any more of his loved ones burned before his eyes. A loaded gun hidden under his pillow, inches from his fingertips. His tired mind working overtime, mulling this over.

Dean shrugged.

"Yeah, well...I have my moments." He got up and roamed to Bobby's refrigerator for another bottle of alcohol. From the cupboard, he took down another glass and set it on the table. "Want some?" Dean let the bottle hover over that new empty glass, waiting for the cue.

"Angels don't drink," Castiel said matter-of-factly. Dean poured two glasses anyway.

"I didn't think angels ever said sorry, either."

When Dean extended the glass to Castiel, he accepted it. He downed it in one quick gulp, as if he had been doing it half as long as Dean. In reality, it was one of the first times Castiel had tasted alcohol on his tongue, but alcohol was no stronger than water to an angel.

Immediately, Dean poured him another and the two of them sat there in the dark, nursing their drinks and counting their regrets.

He wondered if it would do either of them any good.

…..

 _ **As always, many thanks to those who have reviewed lately! It's always a pleasure to know that there are people out there who enjoy these one-shots.**_


	32. Say My Name

_**Say My Name**_

"Dean," Cas called out for the fifth time in two minutes. Dean took his sweet time making his way down the hall to Cas' bedroom. _Probably wants another PB &J, _he thought, dragging his feet along. _One day he turns human and the next I'm Alfred to his Batman. Minus the money._ "Dean, Dean, Dean—"

"Hold your horses. I'm coming," he grumbled. For an ex-angel, patience was not one of his virtues.

At the very end of the hall, Dean reached Cas' room and edged the door open. For a moment, he paused in the doorway, confused by what he saw. Cas was stretched out across his bed, head lolling across his pillow, seemingly fast asleep. The sheets coiled like snakes around his legs. His mouth moved, chanting one word over and over as he writhed in deep slumber.

"Dean, Dean, _Dean_ —"

It was a desperate plea. Cas' brow furrowed and his hands reached out to claw the air for something that wasn't there.

Dean backed away slowly, his brain buzzing a mile a minute, eyes wide as saucers. Without a word, in case he woke Cas, he wandered back down the hallway to the kitchen where Sam was busy preparing himself a fresh turkey sandwich and side salad for lunch.

Sam glanced up when Dean drifted into the room. He did a double take when he recognized the alarm on Dean's face.

"What is it?" He tried to keep his voice steady, but Dean detected the note of urgency in his brother's voice.

Dean didn't answer, just stood there with his eyes wide and color drained from his face. How did he even begin to explain what he had witnessed? He didn't even know how to make sense of it in his mind. Sam forgot all about his sandwich, his muscles tensed in anticipation of the worst.

"Dean, what's wrong with you? Did you walk in on Cas again?" That was the reason Dean gave Cas a tutorial on how to lock the bathroom door just the other day. Dean shook his head.

"He's sleeping. And moaning my name." At first, Sam's face mirrored Dean's WTF expression. Then he burst out laughing. The side-splitting, bent-at-the-knees, coffee-through-the-nose kind. Dean glared at his brother, his knuckles forming a fist by his side. "It's not funny, Sam!"

"Yeah, it is," he gasped between breaths, wiping a stream of moisture from his eye. "Ah…ah…I knew it!"

"Knew _what_?!" Dean exclaimed. Before Sam could answer, footsteps approached the kitchen and a sleepy-looking Cas stumbled into view. His mouth hung wide open in the midst of a yawn and his black hair was ruffled on top. He blinked at Sam and Dean, a lazy smile forming on his lips.

"Hello, you two. An afternoon nap works wonders for the soul," he said, making a beeline for the coffeepot.

"I'll make sure to stitch that on a pillow," Dean remarked, watching him warily.

"So, Cas," Sam said, his lips forming a smug smile, "have any good dreams lately?" He snickered while Dean fumed. If looks could kill, Sam Winchester would have died for the umpteenth time in his life, right there on the spot.

"Depends on your definition of good," Cas answered, concentrating on pouring a steady stream of coffee. Sam and Dean exchanged puzzled glances. That wasn't exactly what they expected to hear. Hell, Cas didn't even appear the least bit ashamed.

The brothers waited, but the silence stretched on.

"Care to elaborate?" Dean demanded.

Cas set down the coffeepot and turned around, a heavy, impatient sigh on his lips. It sounded like he didn't want to talk about it and Dean had to stop himself from glancing below Cas' waist, just in case. There was none of the lust, longing, or even confusion that Dean expected when Cas looked at him. There was only a hard stare, almost accusing, as if Dean had stolen his lunch money.

"If you must know, I dreamt I was in a field of flowers," Cas explained. Already Dean didn't like where this was going. Sam's shoulders quivered with a pent-up laugh, ready to burst. "You were there, Dean. I was chasing you. For some reason, you thought it was funny to steal my trench coat like mothers pretend to steal their babies' noses."

Dean let out a sigh of relief.

"What did you expect to hear?" Cas inquired, glancing from Dean to Sam curiously. Dean shot Sam a dark look, warning him not to utter a word if he valued his life.

"Believe me, Cas, you don't want to know."

…..


	33. Rescue Me

_**A/N: Hey there, readers! Some fabulous news: today is Rachel Miner's (Meg 2.0) birthday! In honor of my favorite version of Meg, here is a one-shot for her and Castiel. Contains Megstiel, so I apologize if this ship isn't your thing.**_

 _ **Spoilers up to the S8 episode "Goodbye, Stranger."**_

 _ **Rescue Me**_

 _Karma is a bitch,_ Meg thought bitterly. Famous last words.

When she pictured her demise, she never imagined it would be at the hands of Crowley. Maybe the Winchesters, but never Crowley. It was a cruel stroke of fate, to be killed by the one person she most wanted to kill. Something had come over her lately, some change of heart that she shook her to the core of her dark being. Here she stood, staring death in the face instead of running away, like every instinct in her body was screaming for her to do. All so the Winchesters and their precious angel could escape in one piece.

Her angel.

It was all his fault, the reason she was behaving this way. She never meant to have the hots for him; it just… _happened_. She never even knew her shriveled black heart still possessed that kind of emotion. Stranger things have happened. Plus, an angel and a demon coming together that way seemed like all manner of hot.

Crowley closed in on her, the blade of his knife glinting in his hand with vicious intent, but she made no move to run or cower.

 _Goodbye, stranger,_ she thought, closing her eyes in anticipation of that fatal cut. And she had so been looking forward to ordering that pizza and moving furniture with him.

If the Winchesters made good on their threat to seal the gates of Hell forever, killing Crowley in the process, it would be worth it. Maybe they would even see each other in another life, one without so much blood and tears.

"Save your goodbyes," a familiar, deep voice made her eyes snap open again.

She was no longer face-to-face with Crowley, but instead the impressively strong back of a tan trench coat and the head of midnight-black hair she imagined felt as soft as the feathers of his angel wings. Not that she ever imagined those powerful wings wrapping around her body and drawing her into his arms. That was too poetic for her taste.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she asked, grasping his shoulder. His intense blue eyes never strayed from Crowley as he shielded her from his view.

"Currently? Saving you."

"Who said I needed to be saved? I can take care of myself," she insisted, her brows furrowing at the thought of him making her out to be some kind of damsel in distress. For a moment, he shifted his chin to catch her eye.

"If that were true, you'd be gone by now, and you wouldn't have prayed."

"I…" She wanted to say that she _didn't_ pray, but then again her last thought had been of him. Prayer came in all forms, apparently.

Still, she could not understand why he would stand between her and Crowley. Why would he do something as stupid as returning for her sake? Angels never risked their lives for demons, yet here he was, defending her honor once more.

The mission was supposed to be retrieving the angel tablet, but she didn't see it anywhere in his hands. She knew better than to ask about it in front of Crowley, who wanted it just as badly as the Winchesters. No need to remind him what was at stake.

Crowley snorted derisively as he observed the two of them.

"Well, aren't you just the knight in shining trench coat?" he sneered. The knife fiddled in his fingers and his menacing eyes flashed to Meg, boiling with pure hatred. She returned the gesture, glaring back at him over the angel's shoulder. "You want to keep her alive, halo? Can't imagine why, but I pride myself with being a reasonable man. I'll make you a deal. Hand over the angel tablet, and I'll never harm another hair on her head for the rest of her dark days. Cross my heart and hope to die."

He mimicked the sign of an X over his chest. Meg sincerely doubted Crowley even had a heart to sacrifice.

"I'll make sure of it," she spat over Cas' shoulder, much to the angel's brief annoyance. How could she forget? He didn't like conflict.

"You won't have either one tonight," Cas declared. At his side, he clasped Meg's hand in his own. She sensed this was more than a romantic gesture on his part. It was time to go. "I'll take them both with me, far away, where you can never find them again."

Crowley's eyes narrowed to slits. The glint of the blade caught her attention again. Why was he still playing with that thing if he didn't intend to—

"Let's see which one of us has the quicker draw, shall we?"

As Castiel spun to embrace her, pressing her body against his chest, she saw Crowley throw the knife. The world ripped out from under her feet as Cas whisked her away with that fancy angel mojo. It was hard to tell with the wind rushing past her ears, but she swore he cried out in sharp pain. Her hands slid across his back, bunching his coat in her palms to keep from falling out of his arms.

Something protruded from his lower back.

 _The knife,_ she realized with a surprisingly cold feeling in her chest. _Guess Crowley had a slightly quicker draw this time._ Though, she had to assume he hadn't hit his target, since she wasn't the one bleeding.

Their landing was bumpier than she thought it would be. Her back slammed against a hard, bare floor with Castiel sprawled on top of her.

"Forgive me," he gasped as she groaned from the impact. "Usually I teleport smoother than this, but my concentration was severed."

"I've been in worse positions," she reassured him. Even as she said it, she was aware of how his body felt on top of hers, firm and warm, fitting perfectly like a puzzle piece. His arms were wrapped around her waist to hold her close, as if they were about to move some of that furniture around.

Until this moment, she never really appreciated how incredibly blue his eyes were. Blue and churning with light, like the restless waves of the ocean. Blue, like an angel's Grace.

He must have realized their close proximity, for his eyes lowered and he rolled off of her. The knife was still embedded in his back. He wrenched it out and pressed his hand to his side, but the pain in his face did not fade.

"What's the matter, Clarence? Your angel mojo out of order?" she said, gesturing to the trembling hand covering his wound without touching it. He kept his head bent, as though he was ashamed to talk about it.

"My ability to heal has been...faulty for quite some time," he admitted. _How the mighty hath fallen,_ she thought pitifully. She wasn't the only one that was despised among her fellow species. Heaven had no more love for Castiel than Hell did for demons like her.

"Luckily for you, I played a nurse, remember?" She got to her feet and brushed the specks of dirt off her jacket. Unlike him, she was relatively unscathed by Crowley's attack. Then she grabbed Castiel under the arms and hoisted him onto a dusty velvet sofa.

"Temporarily," he pointed out. "And without the proper education."

"Well, you know what they say…"

"They?" he inquired, tilting his head to the side in that naive way she began to find oddly amusing.

"Practice makes perfect," she finished. She made him sit on the edge of the couch so she could have better access to his lower back, where the knife had been removed, and occupied the cushion directly behind him. "Take off your shirt. So I can see the wound."

"Right here? In front of you?" She rolled her eyes.

"Believe it or not, yours is not the first body I've seen. I doubt there's anything there that will surprise me. Unless you have embarrassing tattoos from drinking too much?" He chuckled. That did take her by surprise, if only because it was the first time she heard him make such a light noise.

"No, Jimmy Novak never had any tattoos or physical defects. And I don't make a habit of consuming large quantities of alcohol."

"Don't knock it until you've tried it."

"I have. I once found a liquor store and drank it. The result was not pleasant, even if I have a higher tolerance than most humans." She whistled and winced when she imagined the sort of nasty hangover that cost him in the morning.

It was strange to be reminded that they were wearing other people as meat suits. She wondered what his real form as an angel looked like, but she also knew that, as a demon, she would never be allowed to look upon it without bursting into flames.

"Then you have no excuse. Take off your shirt," she demanded. After another moment's hesitation, he slid his trench coat off his shoulders and folded it delicately on the couch. Next was the navy suit jacket. Now she could see the stain of blood beneath his white shirt.

At last, he stripped off that layer and there was nothing left to hide the smooth, warm skin of his back. Strong muscles rippled under that taut skin, tempting her fingertips to brush over his backbones, where she imagined his wings would be. Her eyes found the knife wound, oozing blood, but it did not retract from the beauty before her. If anything, she admired the battle scar he earned in her name.

She didn't realize how much she was staring until he glanced over his shoulder and cleared his throat.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, sounding quite fearful. She shook off her awed reverie. What was wrong with her? She hadn't felt this way—racing pulse, lack of words, butterflies in her stomach—since she was human.

"Not at all. Everything back here looks…perfect," she said, and then cursed inside her head. Why did she have to sound like a silly little girl with a crush? "Where did we crash, anyway?"

"This is the basement of an ancient church. When I took you away, I sought somewhere safe. Somewhere Crowley would not easily find us. For angels and humans alike, this is the House of God, and therefore sanctuary from all evil." He paused to glance over at her. "Is it…uncomfortable for you?"

"Uncomfortable?" she parroted, just as she got to work on staunching the blood flow on his back.

"The church," he clarified. "I didn't have time to consider whether it would be comfortable for you, being a demon."

"Oh. Right." What else would he have meant? "Contrary to popular belief, demons do not get struck by lightning if they walk into a church. You know how many years passed before I got up the nerve to test that theory? All because my father and brother would tell me tall tales about being smote by angels if I dared to walk there?"

"Why did you?" he asked. She fell quiet as she dabbed away the excess blood with his stained shirt. It was already ruined, so she found no harm in using it. Demons had long memories, and the one that came to mind now wasn't particularly pleasant.

"It was my mother's funeral. Let's just say, it was my last inkling of humanity getting the best of me. Of course, no one recognized me since I was wearing the body of some secretary twice my age at the time."

"My condolences," he told her. She shrugged.

"It was years ago. These days, I can't remember the exact sound of her voice, or the perfume she used to wear, or the shade of her eyes…but that was the day I figured out demons weren't immune to sacred ground. It's like sitting in a room that's too hot or cold; I can live with it. I figured that if I did get struck by lightning, it should be for a good reason."

"That is a good reason," he reassured her. "Is she the reason you…sold your soul?" The question was hesitant, as though he was afraid it would be too personal for her to answer. Meg smirked.

"No. People sell their souls for many things, and usually a lot less. Funny enough, I sold my soul for another man. My boyfriend at the time. When I was human, we got into a car accident while arguing about something stupid. I made it out without serious injury, but he fell into a coma and the doctors didn't know if he'd ever wake up. I had been…dabbling in all sorts of dark things, because I thought that stuff was _cool_ , and so I sold my soul to bring him back. Young love, right?" She let out a weak laugh. Her throat grew tight as the rest of the story unfolded in her mind. "It was a year after he returned to me that I realized what kind of man he really was—the kind that would leave me for another woman. Even after I told him what I did to bring him back. In the end, I was miserable for nine years before the hellhounds came to drag me to Hell. Not much of a fairy tale ending."

Her voice was bitter, but most of the pain she ever felt after his betrayal had faded away with her humanity. Castiel had been quietly listening while she talked, but now he sought her hand on the couch beside him.

"One day, you will find the right one. Someone who will happily give up everything they have for you," he comforted her. She couldn't help but wonder if he thought of himself as being "the one." Not even she was sure if that was true.

"Yeah, I've read fortune cookies that say the same thing."

After dabbing up his blood as best she could, Meg found a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels lying around behind the old couch. Even on sacred ground, the holy ones had their temptations. Unscrewing the cap, she took a long swig from it and then splashed some of the alcohol over his wound to clean it out. Castiel hissed from the burn of the alcohol, his back arching away from her.

"You could have given me some warning," he said.

"Sorry, babe. My mouth was busy with Jack Daniels."

"We're the only ones down here." He glanced around the dusty basement to be sure. She stretched the bottle of Jack Daniels in front of him, so he could read the label. "Ah, I see. You were preoccupied with the alcohol. Dean usually says the same thing."

"I'm almost done," she promised him.

There was an antique desk in the corner of the room, beneath a gilded painting of the Virgin and Child. Meg cast her eyes down from the painting and rummaged through the desk until she found an old, unused First Aid kit. Talk about divine miracles. Returning to Cas' side, she began to stitch up the wound on his back.

"Did you…get your hands on the angel tablet?" Finally, she got up the courage to ask.

"Yes," he answered cautiously, the muscles of his back tensing. She doubted it had to do with the needle zipping in and out of his skin. Her next words were crucial; it would ruin everything if she asked to see it. After all, at the end of the day, she was still a demon and he was still an angel.

"Good," she said. "Our mission wasn't a complete failure." His muscles relaxed under the tip of the needle.

"On the contrary, I consider it a success. I overcame the influence of an unexpected threat, the angel tablet is in a secure location, and everyone made it out alive."

She wore a faint smile when she thought of how he saved her. No one had done something like that for her before, not even her father. Then again, even she had to admit her father was a self-serving bastard at best.

"You're not curious about its location?" he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder with an arched eyebrow.

"I am, but I doubt you'll tell me. The important thing is that it didn't end up in Crowley's hands."

"Do you still hope to kill him?"

"One day at a time, Clarence." She finished the last stitch and admired her handiwork. Not bad, if she said so herself. "You're good." She patted his bare shoulder, his skin pleasantly soft and warm to the touch.

"So are you," he told her, his blue eyes sparkling in the shadows. "Your near sacrifice proved that." Much to her disappointment, he retrieved his shirt and slipped it on. Meg thought it was a shame to cover up so soon. "Thank you." He sounded like he sincerely meant it.

"Ditto," Meg replied. As she expected, the phrase flew over his head and she earned a blank stare. Obviously he had never seen the movie _Ghost._ He was going to make her say it, wasn't he? It was possibly the hardest thing she ever had to do. "Thank you."

"It's my pleasure."

"I'm sure," she teased. She thought it was rather cute, the way he lowered his eyes when he was embarrassed or modest. It was a trait she did not possess. Placing her hands on his face, she lifted it again. The urge to kiss him was powerful, and she figured she had better do it before the adrenaline wore off completely.

Meg wrested handfuls of his collar and pulled him down to meet her halfway. As she kissed him, her arm snaked around his neck, her fingers digging their way into his dark hair. It felt just as feathery soft as she imagined.

At first, his lips remained stiff with his surprise, but in the next instant, he cupped the back of her head and returned her kiss. They sank back on the couch and she guided him on top of her.

There was no stopping this time, and it was becoming clear to her that neither of them wanted to.

They had survived the night. She doubted any pizza place would deliver to an old, dusty church, but the very least they could do was move some furniture.

…..

"We did that," Castiel said as he stretched back on the couch, his skin cooling from the recent heat of their intimacy. Meg laid her head on his bare chest and listened to the thrum of his pounding heart beneath her ear.

"Mm," she moaned blissfully. It had been a long time since she had been intimate with anyone, and secretly Castiel was the best she ever remembered having. Her union with an angel was every bit as hot as she hoped it would be. "We did that. In a church, no less. Not bad for first-timers. Or are you saying that because you regret it?"

A terrible feeling twisted in her stomach. What if he did regret it?

In answer, he raised her chin and captured her lips again. After all they had just done, how could he make her tremble from the inside out with that one gentle touch? Nothing seemed to make sense when she was around him, but she sort of liked it that way. In these moments, the world was much less complicated, dark, and lonely.

It was just her and him, nothing else. Not even Heaven and Hell could intervene.

"Why do we have to be angels and demons?" she sighed, more to herself than to him. He tilted his head back on the armrest to gaze down at her.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I've been a demon for a long time, baby." She contemplated telling him just how long, but ladies never revealed their true age, not even demons. "I'm _tired_. Why can't we just be Meg and Castiel for a little while?"

His fingers danced across her flushed cheek. She would never admit it out loud, but she liked the feeling.

"I think Just Meg and Castiel is just fine." And he brought her down for another deep kiss. Then he paused, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. "Meg?"

"Yeah, Clarence?"

"I think I ripped open my stitches."

….


	34. Mother

_**A/N: Hello, readers! This is a one-shot that came to mind shortly after the finale of season 11. Just a little bit of musing on my part when it comes to season 12. Obvious spoilers.**_

 _ **Mother**_

 _Watch out for Sam._

Those had been Dean's last wish to him before he'd gone on his kamikaze mission to confront Amara and save the world again, with the power of hundreds of souls barely contained inside his human form, ready to be ignited with the slightest touch of two fingers.

Those were also the last words that passed through Castiel's mind before he was forcibly ripped from Sam's side, driven back up to Heaven by a blood sigil.

When an angel was sent back to Heaven against his or her will, their power was critically weakened, the connection between their celestial form and their humanly vessel temporarily severed. It could take hours for an angel to return to Earth, depending on their strength, but that didn't stop Cas from trying with all his might.

A futile effort.

No matter how hard he fought, he simply could not summon the strength to return to Earth once more. Heaven had become his prison and every second was precious when he was not by Sam's side. Of course Sam was a skilled hunter, one of the best Cas had ever seen alongside Dean, and more than capable of defending himself in precarious situations. That did not ease Cas' worry.

What if something went wrong on Earth? What if Sam was outnumbered, overpowered? He was only one man now and, no matter how many times the Winchesters cheated death, neither brother was immortal. What if Sam was captured or severely injured?

What if he…died? Again? And what if he did not come back this time? Would Sam even want to come back to a world without his brother? Cas would not blame him if he didn't. There was no guarantee that Sam would return the next time he reached death's door, and at the moment Cas wasn't there to protect him with what little celestial power he possessed.

Through all of his struggling and meditating in an effort to escape Heaven's confinement, Cas could not help but feel that he had failed Dean. This had been the last request Dean made of him as they said their goodbyes and he had already screwed it up.

At long last, there was the gradual feeling of a tremendous weight lifted from his chest, of shackles releasing his limbs, a feathery-light sensation that barely kept his feet on the ground. Cas knew his time had come. He was free to return to Earth and whatever awaited him.

By the time he returned to the bunker, it was the early hours of the morning and still silent as a tomb. Sam's name hung on his lips, but it went unvoiced as he came to a standing halt in the library, where he and Sam had been ambushed what felt like an eternity ago. There was blood on the floor. Not a fearful amount, the size of a small puddle, but it sent a chill striking through Castiel as he imagined it to be Sam's blood that was shed. There was no other evidence of him in the bunker, or of their attacker, aside from the carefully drawn and dried blood sigil on the wall.

She had been lying in wait for them. Yes, it had been a woman. He was certain he had gotten a glimpse of her before the blinding light swept him back to Heaven.

Sam was gone. By now, he could be anywhere. Cas didn't even know if he was alive or if more of his blood was being shed at that exact moment.

Castiel hung his head, his blue eyes blazing into that puddle of blood, as if it held all the answers that could lead him to Sam. Even his mind was quiet and empty of summons from a prayer. The guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders, caving them inward, and made it almost impossible for him to draw in a breath.

That was how Dean found him, bent and broken, begging for a miracle that was unlikely to come. The sound of footsteps on the stairs shattered Cas' miserable reverie and he whirled to see Dean descending the stairs into the library, alive and well, followed by a golden-haired woman that could only be Mary Winchester.

It was a miracle, indeed, just not the one they needed at the moment.

"Cas," Dean called out, rushing down the stairs to meet him halfway.

"Dean," he greeted, his voice overcome with relief. The ghost of a smile rose on his lips as Dean embraced him, but it crumbled when he remembered that he had to break the news that Sam was missing and possibly dead. Again.

"This is my mom, Mary," Dean introduced them, gesturing to the woman in the white nightgown. The same one she wore the night of her death, Cas had no doubt.

While Mary was quick to smile, Cas tentatively accepted her hand. Would she be so fond if she knew he had failed to protect her youngest son? Some angel he had turned out to be. Dean glanced around the library and Cas didn't have to ask who he was searching for.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asked.

Cas' stomach plummeted, as if he had taken the high dive on one of those frightening metal centipedes called roller coasters. He turned away from Dean, because he could not bear to witness the disappointment cloud his green eyes.

"Cas?" Dean prompted. The floorboard groaned under his feet as he took a step forward. "Why is there blood on the floor? And what's with the sigil? What happened?" He felt Dean's hand clamp down on his shoulder.

Cas tilted his head back to stare up at the high-vaulted ceiling and Heaven beyond it. Once, the gesture of looking toward Heaven would bring him comfort, but these days Heaven was reluctant to come to his aid.

"Sam is gone," he said quietly. He heard Mary's soft gasp and Dean's hand fell from his shoulder. Dean's knuckles cracked as he balled his fists. "I don't know where he is. I don't even know if he's still alive. This…unfamiliar woman was here, waiting for us, and she sent me back to Heaven. I am truly sorry, Dean."

The floorboards creaked and groaned some more as Dean paced up and down restlessly. It was always one disaster after another, their period of peace short-lived. They simply could not catch a break.

" _Dammit_ , Cas, you had one job!" Dean growled over his shoulder. Most of it stemmed from the pure frustration of losing his brother again mixed with sheer exhaustion, but it was everything Cas anticipated hearing. He lowered his head in shame, his shoulders slumping under the burden of his guilt.

"I know I've failed you again, Dean. It seems I can't do anything right anymore. If I ever could." Though he could not see it, Dean had stopped in his tracks and was the one looking guilty now.

"Aw, Cas, that's not what I—" His voice trailed off as Mary patted her son's shoulder.

"Nice bedside manner you've got there, honey. Now let a professional handle this. Obviously what he needs is a mother's comfort. Come here, sweetheart."

Before Cas could react, Mary strode over, turned him around, and held him close in her arms. Cas' arms hung limply by his sides as he debated whether to hug her back or let her squeeze the life out of him. He met Dean's eyes, but Dean's only answer was a half-shrug.

"Now, you listen here," Mary told him passionately. "Bad things may happen to good people, but that doesn't mean you should give up so easily. That will only bring you worse luck down the road. If we want to find Sam, we have to be strong, smart, and work together. I sure as hell didn't come back from the dead thirty years later to live with my son being missing or dead. You've gotta keep fighting to the end and trust that you're doing the right thing. As long as you believe that, everything will work out. You'll see."

Mary pulled back and tipped Cas' chin up.

"I do feel better," he assured her. "Thank you. You make a very good mother." Behind them, Dean rolled his eyes.

"Humph. She's _my_ mother," he muttered. Cas peered around Mary's shoulder.

"Dean, you said we were brothers. Wouldn't that make her my mother by association?" He looked back down at Mary, so alive with a healthy glow in her cheeks, and bowed his head respectfully. "As an angel, I've never had a mother before."

Mary's eyebrows rose when she heard the word _angel._ Apparently, Dean hadn't told her everything yet. Nevertheless, she maintained her composure like any seasoned hunter.

"Oh, well, I'm here if you ever need to talk," Mary promised. "I can't say I have experience with counseling... _angels_ , but I do know a thing or two about boys. This is just a phase of life you're going through, and we've all been there. Times when we're feeling lost or confused about who we're meant to be, and our emotions keep getting in the way. Sometimes we don't even like who we see when we look in the mirror. It's called _adolescence_."

Dean snorted with laughter, earning a sharp no-nonsense look from Mary.

"So you're saying Cas is being melodramatic and hard on himself because he's going through puberty?" Dean failed to contain his laughter.

"In that case, Dean, you must still be very deep in the throes of adolescence," Cas noted. After all, it was unfortunate for him to admit that no one despised Dean more than Dean did. It troubled Mary to hear it and she turned away, a hand pressed to her mouth. Dean's laughter ceased. He raised a hand to slap Cas in retaliation, but Mary whipped back around, pointing a finger at her son.

"Dean Winchester, don't you dare lay a hand on your brother! Treat others the way you want to be treated." Dean's mouth flopped open.

"What, you already adopted him? And how did you even-?"

"It's called motherly instinct. I see more than you think, even with my back turned," she cut him off, gesturing to the same green eyes Dean had inherited. Then her finger swiveled to Cas. "And in case you're getting any funny ideas, remember: monkey see, monkey _do not do it_."

Cas' alarmed gaze shifted from Mary to Dean and back again. No creature on Earth had ever called him a monkey before, not even Crowley.

"I was pondering over whether it would be appropriate to call you Mary, Mom, or Mother. If you consider that funny." Dean certainly gave him a strange look in light of it. Mary's lips parted in surprise and her hand fell back to her side.

"Oh. You can call me whatever you like."

"Okay. Mother."


	35. Little Brother

_**Little Brother**_

"I still don't understand..." Castiel grumbled as he trailed out of the greasy burger joint behind Sam and Dean. "What is so special about the other side of the road that the chicken must always risk fatality to cross it?"

Dean sighed and gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head to his brother. He had tried telling Cas that joke while they waited for their burgers to arrive at their table, and Cas was still puzzling over its meaning, a good half hour later.

"I told you he wouldn't get it," Sam whispered, though he cast a sympathetic look toward Cas over his shoulder.

"That's just 'cause he's not like the rest of us apes. Right, Cas?" Dean smirked and slowed in his steps enough to allow Cas to catch up. One arm draped over Cas' shoulders while Dean's hand ruffled the dark hair on top of Cas' head, which earned him a disapproving glare.

Cas' blue eyes darted from one brother to the other as they exchanged secretive smiles. It always seemed like they knew something he did not, that they had access to some profound knowledge that he could never grasp.

"Why must you do that?" Cas groaned, fixing his hair back into place. They reached the Impala on the side of the dirt road, but Dean paused, bouncing the keys in his palm.

"Do what?" he replied innocently. Castiel was not fooled. By now, he knew Dean well enough to know when he wasn't being entirely forthcoming.

"You...say things that aren't considered to be friendly. You mess up my hair every chance you get. You and Sam gloat endlessly over knowing something I don't. It's...uncomfortable." For his credit, Sam actually appeared remorseful, his hazel eyes wide and apologetic. Dean simply shrugged.

"You're our brother, Cas. Sometimes we like to think of you as our naive _little_ brother," he explained.

"Little?" Cas scoffed. He gave both brothers an incredulous stare. "I'll have you know that I have existed many millennia more than even your great-great-great-great grandparents! If anything, you two are the infants here!"

Dean held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Be that as it may...it just _happens_. You know, a brother teasing his...brother." Dean stumbled over his words, catching himself before he called Cas "little" again. Cas noticed and narrowed his eyes.

"We don't really mean anything by it, Cas," Sam added softly. He took a small step closer to the angel, hand outstretched in a gesture of comfort. "We don't mean to hurt your feelings. It's all in good fun." Cas regarded Sam and Dean skeptically. He thought they had a strange sense of "fun."

"It's called having a laugh at your expense. It's what brothers do. Sam and I do it to each other all the time."

"Some more often than others," Sam mumbled, but Dean pretended not to hear it.

"Like when I call him _bitch_ and make fun of his ridiculous fear of killer clowns."

"And when I call him _jerk_ and laugh at him for his ridiculous fear of flying."

"So, it's expected of you?" Cas asked. The two brothers exchanged glances again over the hood of the car. Together, they shrugged.

"By now? Yeah," Sam answered. "I would start to think something was wrong with Dean if he wasn't messing with me at least once a week."

Cas nodded thoughtfully. This was simply another staple to their complex relationship as brothers. In turn, they had named him their "little" brother. If he was going to assume the role of their brother, then he would have to meet those same qualifications.

Cas grinned at Sam and Dean, which they found more than a little peculiar. He snapped his fingers. In an instant, the greasy food joint and the Impala disappeared into thin air. The earth was ripped away from beneath their feet as they rushed through time and space in the fraction of a second.

Sam opened his eyes to find himself balancing precariously on a tightrope in the middle of a big-top circus, the kind with a red-and-white striped tent and the lingering smell of stale popcorn. Below him, it was standing room only, the circus tent crowded with a sea of creepy clowns armed with sharp, glittering knives. Hundreds of painted faces gazing up at him with bloodthirsty malice, waiting for him to lose his balance. Immediately, Sam was immobilized by fear, even as his ankles continued to wobble on the wire-thin tightrope.

Not clowns. Anything but clowns.

Miles high in the sky, Dean opened his eyes and suddenly wished he hadn't. He was seated in the middle of a crowded plane full of strangers, the floor jostling under his feet every time there was turbulence. He gripped the armrest and hummed Metallica. Bile raced up his throat. Oh, that greasy burger was coming back to haunt him...

 _Whoosh_.

"I think I'm beginning to understand the appeal of teasing your brothers," Cas noted, materializing in the empty seat beside him. Dean could barely concentrate on Cas' words over his spiking fear and the sound of his humming. "You two are overcome with irrational fear and behave in an overly dramatic manner as a result while I remain peacefully unaffected. Ha, ha."

Cas actually laughed. It was a strange sound, as mechanical and monotone as the rest of his celestial being. Dean grasped the sleeve of Cas' trench coat for dear life.

"You had your fun, Cas. Make it stop!" Just then, the plane tilted forward and picked up speed, falling straight out of the sky. Shrill alarms pierced his ears, along with the sudden bloodcurdling screams of the passengers. Dean clenched his eyes shut, waiting for the violent impact. For a moment, he thought Cas wouldn't comply, but then Cas snapped his fingers.

Far below, in the red-and-white tent, Sam's foot slipped off the tightrope and he dove through the open air, down toward the sea of killer clowns-

He landed face-first on the dusty road, next to the Impala's tire.

"Ow," he mumbled. Picking up his head, he spat out a flume of dirt. There was the Impala, and the greasy burger joint, and his brother paralyzed by fear, still holding onto Cas' trench coat. "Uh...Dean? You can open your eyes now."

"Are we dead again? Oh, God, don't tell me we're stuck on an island in the middle of nowhere with a raging smoke monster."

Dean opened one eye, and then both when he realized it was safe. Technically, they were in the middle of nowhere, but at least he wasn't in the middle of a plane wreckage. He let go of Cas trench coat and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans.

"That was fun, right?" Cas said, smiling at his two brothers. Dean pointed a finger in his face and the smile disintegrated.

"Don't... _ever_...do that again!"


	36. Patch

_**A/N: Spoilers up to the Season 11 finale!**_

 ** _Patch_**

 _Riiip!_

It was the most dreadful sound Castiel had ever heard, the sound of tearing cloth as he tucked his silver angel blade into one of his inner pockets. Quickly he removed the angel blade and inspected the damage, gently probing around with his fingers. There was a split along the bottom seam, the cloth flapping open like a mouth in the midst of an anguished cry.

If he was Dean, this would be the part where he growled "son of a bitch!" Suddenly, he could see the appeal of doing so. All he could do was stick his fingers through the hole and frown. Currently, he lacked the angel mojo to do anything about it. He certainly didn't have the experience that most humans had with sewing.

A shame. There weren't many material items in this world that Castiel was attached to, but his trench coat was an exception. Just as Dean loved his Impala.

"Oh, no," a soft voice murmured. Castiel's head shot up to meet Mary Winchester's mournful eyes, his fingers still wiggling through the hole of his pocket. He wasn't used to Mary being around the bunker, alive and well. She had been nothing but kind and honest to him, but his social anxiety concerning people made it difficult to reciprocate. "Here, take it off."

She crossed the kitchen and held out her hand.

"Excuse me?" he sputtered. Mary smiled encouragingly and stepped further into the kitchen.

"Your coat. Take it off so I can fix it," she clarified, pointing to the obvious hole in his pocket. "Unless you want to go around with a hole in your pocket? I know how much you adore that trench coat. It's all I've ever seen you wear." Castiel lowered his eyes in modesty.

"I am rather fond of it," he admitted. He took his fingers out of the ripped pocket and slid the trench coat off his shoulders. He only hesitated a moment before handing it over to Mary's care.

"Don't worry, I'll be gentle with it," she teased as she brought it over to the kitchen table, where she had set up a white sewing machine. "I've done this many times. Believe me, I know what I'm doing." She sat down behind the sewing machine and got to work. Castiel settled into the seat across from her and watched as her hands expertly handled the machine. For a while, there was only the rapid _click-click-click-click-click_ of the needle.

"You didn't have to do this," Castiel spoke up. Even as an angel, he was always amazed to encounter a generous human like Mary Winchester and he felt something stir inside him that could only be called gratitude.

"Of course I do," she answered, as if he was ridiculous to think otherwise. "Parents devote all sorts of time to making their children happy. Kissing their cuts, chasing away the bad dreams, teaching them to be strong so that one day they can live in this world without you…" She paused in her sewing. Castiel recognized the first glimmer of sadness in her eyes. It was always there, he realized, that intense longing to make up for lost time, but Mary was just as skilled as her sons in putting on a brave face. "Let's just say…I've missed it."

She carried on with her sewing. It was at this point that Cas felt he should say something, but what? He wrung his hands together in his lap. What would Sam and Dean say to a fellow human in distress? They would stick to the truth as much as they could.

"Sam and Dean have never forgotten you. They've become strong, good men, two of the best hunters I've ever seen," he assured her. Mary sighed heavily.

"I am proud of them," she insisted. "I only wanted to give them a chance to live a normal life, in a world without hunting. Once you get into the family business, you never really get out of it." She knew better than anyone, the memory of Azazel's cold threat hanging in the air between them. Castiel leaned forward, catching her eye.

"What Azazel did to you and your family…it wasn't your fault." Mary's smile returned, but it was a ghost of the one she wore before. It was sad and painful. It told him that she appreciated his concern, but he wasted his breath.

"I wish I could believe that," she whispered. Castiel felt his heart grow heavy in his chest. He wanted to do something, anything to ease her pain, but before he could figure out how, the moment had passed. He sat back.

 _Click-click-click-click-click—_

"It's just like riding a bike," she mused as she began to mend other small holes and rough edges along the hem of his trench coat. "You know, I used to make all of Dean's Halloween costumes this way."

"Costumes?" Castiel inquired with a tilt of the head. Of course, Sam and Dean were accustomed to dressing up like FBI agents during their cases, but apart from that, Castiel had only ever seen Dean wear blue jeans, layers upon layers of plaid, and worn leather jackets. Mary bobbed her head with the sewing machine.

"Oh, yes. One year he was a cowboy. Then an astronaut, a fireman, and a rock star. We bought his first little guitar that year and he went around to every house strumming it and singing the words _don't stop believin'_ over and over. That boy wanted to be anything and everything. The one Halloween I spent with Sam, he dressed up as a baby vampire—the Dracula kind, not the ones us hunters are used to. It was John's idea. Everyone thought those two boys were the sweetest things since sliced bread." She chuckled at the memory.

At last, the needle stopped.

"Here you are. Good as new." Mary whipped up the trench coat and helped him slip it on. His fingers immediately went to the pocket inside; it was perfectly patched up. With ease, he stowed away his angel blade for safekeeping.

"Thank you," he said sincerely, bowing his head to her. Mary caught his chin and raised it again.

"Anything for my boys."

…..


	37. Make Your Choice

_**A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry that this update is a little late. I've been running around like crazy this week while getting ready for vacation. Also, I'm afraid there won't be another update until this Friday. I hope you're all doing good through the hiatus, though. About two more months until Season 12 is here!**_

 _ **Make Your Choice**_

As with most human discoveries on earth, Castiel had not the slightest clue how to access Netflix that first time. He sat on the edge of his bed for what felt like a millennium, punching buttons on the slim black box in his hand while the television sputtered and buzzed in complaint.

 _Feel free to watch Netflix. Just use the remote to work the TV,_ Sam said before he and Dean left to work a case. They made it sound easy.

At long last, Cas tossed the remote down on the bed in frustration. The television screen showed only gray snow. He had to admit that he didn't know what to do, so he called the one person who would hold the answers. At least he had become familiar enough with his cell phone to accomplish that simple task.

She showed up at the door in record time, possibly the only other person in this world to whom Sam and Dean had bestowed a key to the bunker. It was such a fast response time that he began to wonder if she, too, had powers of transport.

"Hey there, bestie," Charlie greeted cheerfully, her fingers splayed two-by-two. He had no idea what that gesture meant, but the one time he tried to copy it, he found he couldn't do that, either. Unless, of course, he taped his fingers together. In her other hand was a white plastic bag, which she opened to reveal a package of popcorn, four cans of Sprite, a bag of colorful, sour gummy worms, and pink Pop Rocks, whatever those were. "I brought goodies, since you said you were spending the day inside. Fair warning: don't mix the Pop Rocks with the soda. It'll make your stomach explode."

Cas' eyes widened and he dropped the bag of Pop Rocks he was inspecting. He considered how painful it would be for his stomach to self-destruct. He also wondered how Charlie knew that from experience; it seemed implausible that she walked around with a gaping hole in the middle of her body. Then again, he had never seen her belly, so that was up for debate.

Politely, he invited her into his bedroom, all the while stuck in silent panic as he realized this was the first time he had a living, breathing human girl in his bedroom. Granted, Charlie mentioned once that she didn't "swing that way," as Dean called it, but that didn't stop his lips from clamping shut and his breath huffing through his nose. His social anxiety was kicking in again, with one word repeated in his head like an alarm: _girl, girl, girl..._

"Technology issues, huh? You called the right person," she said, studying the filmy television screen. She cracked her knuckles. "Let's rock this bitch." In a matter of two minutes, all the while precisely pushing buttons on the remote, she had Netflix up and running. "See? In, out, easy."

"That's what Sam said," Cas replied dubiously.

"I think you're supposed to say _that's what she said._ " She laughed, but he didn't quite understand her amusement. Instead, he blinked at her in confusion.

"You're the only 'she' I know, and you didn't say it. Sam did." Charlie mirrored his perplexity, nodding slowly.

"Right. Bad joke. Never mind."

After she showed him how to navigate Netflix, she recommended the show _Game of Thrones_. Sam and Dean had already made him watch the first two and a half seasons, but he had a surprising longing to continue with the rest. He invited her to stay. It would be terribly rude to push her out the door after such an act of kindness.

Together, they stretched out across the bed, side by side, with the bag of food between them. The opening title of _Game of Thrones_ played out across the screen. It was difficult to watch at first, when he was so aware of Charlie's every movement beside him.

It was certainly easier to think of Charlie as Sam and Dean's younger sister and, by extension, his. By the time three episodes passed, his paralyzed fear faded to agreeable tolerance and eventually he warmed up to her enough not to mind it when she grabbed onto his arm during the intense scenes. Even if talking to people wasn't his strong suit, he genuinely liked Charlie from the moment he met her, which could not be said of every human he encountered.

Charlie was… _fun_.

There weren't any social expectations of romantic intimacy that he was required to meet, thanks to her sexual orientation, and so it was one less distraction for him. Besides, when he looked at Charlie, her taste in men—or lack, thereof—was hardly the first thing that came to mind. He admired her for being their unofficial little sister in a time when their family was scarce. She didn't bombard him with questions about being an angel, fallen or otherwise, which he liked. She treated him like any other person she wanted to know better. He thought about how Sam and Dean had nominated her the most brilliant person in the room, who knew her way around a computer "like Dean knows his pie," as Charlie so proudly pointed out.

It was also comforting to learn, between episodes and mouthfuls of fizzling Pop Rocks, that she shared his social awkwardness. She, too, had flashed her fake badge upside-down.

"How do those two do it?" she pondered, a gummy worm hanging from her lip. "They just whip those things out and _BAM!_ " Cas jumped and popcorn went flying from his hand. "One hundred percent professional."

"Sam and Dean have been in the 'family business' a long time," he explained, employing the use of air-quotes. For some reason, that made Charlie snort with laughter and Sprite came out of her nose. He offered her a tissue and took her word for it that it burned hot as hell.

"Yeah," she added, still pinching and wriggling her nose, "but every time they put on those fancy suits, I almost forget they're not really FBI. Every time I try to lie, they _know_ and I sweat bullets. Plus, I was never a good liar to begin with." She offered him a half-smile.

"Neither am I," he confided in her. Charlie's face lit up and she elbowed him in the gut.

"Something else we have in common!" And then she hugged him. Again. All the while, Cas was stiff in her arms, thankful he didn't have to breathe, and unsure of how he should tell her to get off. Politely, of course. "No pressure or anything, but this is kinda the part where people hug back."

"Oh. Right." For her sake and social etiquette, he put his arms around her shoulders and hugged her in return. Looking back, it was one of his good memories.

After several hours of binge-watching _Game of Thrones_ and having half-moons carved into his hand by Charlie's crudely-bitten nails, something about her struck him as different. She grew quieter, but not because she was fixated on the television screen. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her observing him when she thought he wasn't looking. Thoughtfully, sadly, the gears in her head working overtime. He wondered if he should ask what was on her mind, but he was hesitant to know the answer.

So while she watched him, he kept his eyes glued to the screen, where dragons soared and kings waged war over a throne that would have been a useful weapon against the ghosts Sam and Dean hunted.

Fortunately, Charlie was the one that decided to break the silence.

"Cas, no offense, but...what are you doing?" she asked, her tone exasperated. He tore his eyes away from the screen and gave her a puzzled look.

"Currently, I'm watching Netflix…with you…and consuming a copious amount of unhealthy food," he said hesitantly, as if there was a right and wrong answer to her question. Charlie sipped from her soda and her shoulders slumped.

"No, I mean what are you _really_ doing here? Or, I guess, _not_ doing?" His brows furrowed. The silence stretched on. "Come on, you said it yourself. You're supposed to be an angel of Heaven and you're spending your day binge-watching _Game of Thrones_ and eating junk food. I've been there, done that. Usually when something's gone wrong for me. So spill."

His blue eyes strayed to the door that barricaded him from the outside world. He gulped nervously and confessed everything: about the Darkness, about Rowena's curse to tempt him to kill Crowley, and everything in between.

"I suppose…I'm afraid of what I'll do if I go out there again," he admitted, tilting his head back to stare up at the ceiling. It was a force of habit, turning his eyes toward God when he was lost or desperate for answers. Once, Heaven above had offered him solace and security, but no more.

"As opposed to what will happen to your sanity if you stare at these four walls all day?" Charlie challenged him. He didn't answer. "You're stalling. What are you going to do? Decide."

"I will decide. After this episode," he said, nodding toward the television screen where a wedding commenced. The last wedding featured in _Game of Thrones_ —the Red Wedding—had left Charlie crying on his shoulder. Consoling crying women was another social standard he had not yet mastered. He had learned not to tell a woman to calm down when she was upset, because that would only make it worse.

He prayed he would not have to endure that again.

Charlie pondered in silence for a moment. Then she switched tactics.

"Listen," she said, scooting closer to him, "there's this cool game I played once. You're probably unfamiliar with it, so I'll get right to the exposition stage—"

"That's rather assuming of you," he interrupted. It was true that he didn't understand everything about human life on earth, but Charlie, Sam, and Dean insisted on explaining everything to him every step of the way. "How do you know I'm unfamiliar with it until you tell me what it is?"

"Okay. Telltale's _The Walking Dead._ " Cas blinked. He tilted his head.

"I know that title is a paradox." Charlie shrugged, her smile secretly taunting him with _I told you so._

"Well, it's a game set during a zombie apocalypse. In the game, you play as a survivor and you're forced to make tough decisions, usually in a few seconds or less. It's all about instinct. There's always guilt and there are always consequences, but you won't know what kind until you decide."

"What's your point?" Charlie sighed.

"My point is that I think the reason they put you under pressure in the game is because, if you sat there on your hands with all the time in the world, you would never make that choice. Or at least not the honest choice. So now I'm pressuring you. You know, objects in motion stay in motion, and objects not in motion…" She paused to indicate to Cas' current condition, idle, in rumpled clothing, with a can of Sprite in hand. "Well, sometimes those objects need a little push in the right direction. So you can stay here watching Netflix and hiding out for the rest of your life—which I'm guessing is a really, really long time for an angel—like, seriously, I'll be dust and worm food in my grave before you break a sweat—"

"Charlie," he said shortly, steering her back on track. She bit her lip.

"Sorry. Off-topic. It happens to me a lot, actually." She chuckled. "Anyway, stay here and hide…or be the brave, badass angel I know you are, go out there with your head held high, and help Sam and Dean. They _need_ you. Which is it?"

Cas' eyes flickered from the television screen to the door. There were two options: safe and easy, or hard and painful. The right choice and the easy choice were rarely the same.

"I'm not sure—"

"Ten," Charlie intervened. To his astonishment, she was counting down. Pressuring him, as she promised.

"Charlie!"

"Nine."

"You're pressuring me. It's discomforting."

"That's the point," she said, swatting his head. "Eight-seven-six—" she rattled off even faster. He jolted upright on his side of the bed.

"That's not fair—"

"Five-four-three-two-one!" He held up his hand.

"Enough," he commanded. Charlie fell silent. "I've made my decision." With one last sorrowful glance toward the television, he stood and gathered his trench coat, slipping it on over his shoulders. Charlie beamed. "Thank you," he said meaningfully. If it wasn't for her, he might not have had the strength to make the decision at all.

Charlie made a thumbs-up sign.

"Anytime, bestie. Don't worry; _Game of Thrones_ will still be here when you get back. And I promise not to eat all the snacks." She tucked the rest of the gummy worms back in the bag to prove it. He took a deep breath as he approached the bedroom door, but it did little to calm his trembling nerves. "Go kick some ass, angel."

"I intend to…human," he replied and closed the door behind him.

Charlie shook her head in amazement. It was fascinating being friends with a fallen angel. After he was gone, she cracked open her last can of Sprite with a sharp hiss and settled back comfortably on the pillows. She also snuck her hand into the bag for one last sour gummy worm.

"Now back to my regular scheduled program." She pushed play on the remote. "Oh, yeah! Suck it, Joffrey! I've waited three books for this moment!"

…


	38. Jessica

_**Jessica**_

Ever since Sam and Dean started hunting together, they were practically inseparable. They rode in the same car together for hours on end, they ate every meal together like it would be their last, they slept together…same motel room, different beds, of course. Always within arm's reach of each other. Occasionally they would bicker like brothers do and go their separate ways out of spite, but they reunited in the end, stronger together than apart.

Those two brothers were closer than any pair of brothers Castiel had ever known since the dawn of time, even on a divine level.

That wasn't to say that the brothers did not value their privacy or solitude.

Sometimes Dean felt the need to take the Impala out on the road, to drive and think in peace. Sometimes Sam would prefer to be alone in a library to pore over dusty tomes and his laptop, or to pray in silence. Dean wasn't the praying type.

The bunker made it easier to do so, since Sam and Dean finally had their own rooms.

Cas remembered the first time he discovered Sam alone in his bedroom, his gigantic form perched precariously on the edge of a twin-sized bed that was never long enough to contain all of him. Too often, his feet dangled over the end. His head was bent in the likeness of prayer.

Whether it was a prayer to God or simple musings of days past, Castiel would never know. He never pried into Sam's prayers, since those prayers were not addressed to him.

Even though the bunker quickly became worthy of calling home in their eyes, there were scarcely any personal touches to give off the impression of being comfortably lived in. There was plenty of food in the refrigerator, including copious amounts of alcohol, the bottles lined in a row like bowling pins. Dean's bed sheets were wrinkled worse than a crone's complexion, as he often overlooked the chore in favor of dashing out the door when duty called, but Sam's was perfectly made up every morning until it hardly looked like he slept there at all. Notes and newspapers, journals and clippings scattered the table in the library, but there were no spare keys thrown around carelessly, no clothes strewn across the chairs or floors, no keepsakes or trinkets to decorate the walls and fill the empty spaces.

If Cas did not know the Winchesters had claimed it as their home, he would suspect the bunker belonged to no one in particular.

In Dean's room, there was only an MP3 player filled with his favorite classic rock music and a wallet-sized photo of him and his mother, Mary.

Sam's room suffered a similar fate—pitifully bare of sentimental, material belongings. There was only one photo visible on his desk, but this was a happy photo of a younger, shaggier Sam giving his former girlfriend Jessica a piggyback ride on some golden afternoon long past. Both were smiling, both leading carefree lives, both still alive.

It was this picture that Sam often held in his hands while his head was bent in prayer, eyelashes fluttering over his cheeks, his thumb tracing Jessica's face, frozen forever behind the glass.

Angels had a way of glimpsing a person's soul, their true essence, and Cas knew there was a part of Sam that would never heal from Jessica's untimely death all those years ago. Contrary to popular belief, angels were not always known for comforting those in despair, though Cas tried his best to ease the suffering of this man whom he had come to view as his brother.

"Jessica Moore," Cas announced, as though answering a question in a classroom. He had wandered soundlessly into Sam's bedroom. His electric blue eyes glimpsed the picture over Sam's shoulder, just before Sam jumped out of his skin and fumbled with it.

"What the hell, Cas?" Sam gasped, pressing a hand to his thumping heart. "Dean's right. You have no courtesy for personal space," he said, mildly annoyed. He replaced the picture on the table, though his eyes did not stray from it. "Yeah, that's Jessica. That's from the first year I knew her at Stanford. I thought I had accepted her death and moved on, but there are times when I still miss her."

"Time, in fact, does not heal all wounds," Cas said. Sam nodded in solemn agreement, still memorizing Jessica's smiling face, as if he was afraid his memory would fail him. Cas touched his shoulder and he felt Sam's muscles tense. There was nothing in this world that could change what Azazel had done or erase the grief Sam felt in the wake of that tragedy. It was Jessica's death that had propelled Sam into hunting again in the first place.

The only comfort he could give was reassurance.

"I have seen Jessica's Heaven," he confessed. Sam tipped his chin up, as if he too could see it above his head.

"So she made it there? What is it like?" When he turned his gaze on Cas, his hazel eyes were wide and hopeful, almost childishly so, and he hung on the angel's every word.

It had been some time since Castiel had seen Jessica Moore's version of Heaven. The last time had been the first time, when she'd arrived in Heaven that night, but he could picture it clearly, as though it were only yesterday he treaded there. He remembered every Heaven he ever visited. Each Heaven was unique and personal, since it was constructed from each individual's true essence and core happiness. The memories and places that brought them the greatest peace.

"It is peaceful. She rests in a field of lilies. There is an ancient, flourishing tree where she waits in the shade and reads countless books. She seems to be waiting for something. Her Heaven is filled with memories of you, Sam. All good memories."

"But I was the one that got her killed in the first place. If it weren't for me…." Sam bowed his head in shame. Cas moved to stand in front of him, so he would have no choice but to meet his eyes once more. Despite his enormous height, Sam Winchester suddenly appeared small and drowning in his guilt.

"Not you. Azazel," he corrected. To Sam, there didn't seem to be much difference. "I know you feel responsible for her death, but her Heaven is proof that her time spent with you was the happiest in her life."

"Thank you, Cas," Sam responded faintly. He sought out the picture again, but he seemed to see it in a different light than before, a better light with far less guilt on his shoulders. Cas had said everything he wished to say, and now he stood before Sam awkwardly, the silence between them stretching on. He was never skilled with goodbyes. "Cas? Did you…need something?"

"No. I sense this is the part where I should leave you alone." He waited for Sam's cue of dismissal.

"Right."

Cas nodded and strode to the door, feeling Sam's eyes burning on his back the entire way. Just outside Sam's room, he caught the flicker of movement from the corner of his eye and found Dean leaning against the wall. Judging from his protective stance of folded arms over chest and the amusement in his green eyes, he heard every word.

"That was touching," Dean said, keeping his voice low enough so Sam would not overhear. "You do realize that Sammy will now cry his heart out into his pillow, right?"

Cas glanced back at Sam's room, fearful he had done more harm than good. That happened to him frequently these days.

"Dean, I have witnessed _you_ cry more often than Sam." Dean glared back at him. He pressed a finger to his lips, commanding silence, and shoved him toward Sam's door again. The first sounds of sobbing floated into the hall.

" _Jessica_ …."

….


	39. Advice

_**A/N:**_ _ **Hey there, readers! I'm sorry for the slow updates recently! I'm just trying to figure out some personal things in my life. I hope everyone had a nice, safe Tuesday. Here's a slightly emotional one-shot set in the S5 episode "99 Problems."**_

 _ **Advice**_

As an angel of the Lord, Castiel was bound to be an outsider to all things earthly and human. Out of his element, far from home, he went around half the time looking like Alice after falling down the rabbit hole to Wonderland, with every new discovery being curiouser and curiouser than the last.

And yet….Dean had never seen the angel so lost and hopeless as the day he gave up his search for God.

Dean found the angel moping on a bench outside of their motel room one night, brows eternally furrowed in frustration, hands wrung together. For once he was staring down at the earth instead of the stars above. He sensed there were no answers to be found there anymore. It was impossible not to feel bad for the guy; huddled on that bench, he looked like a sore, helpless puppy with no clue as to where his home was.

He sure as hell wasn't the cry-on-my-shoulder type, but he couldn't just leave him like that, broken and betrayed by his so-called father and family. Not without adding another layer of guilt to the onion of self-loathing that was Dean's conscience, anyway.

"Still hung up about the absent father thing?" he deadpanned.

The only indication of acknowledgment Cas gave was a tight thinning of his lips. His blue eyes darkened, from the clearest sky to the richest sapphire in a heartbeat, bursting with pain and disappointment. Dean knew that look well enough—he'd seen it in the mirror once or twice when thinking about his own father, back when he and Sam literally fought tooth and nail to find him. He leaned against Baby's black hood and dove into those memories again, inevitably feeling his expression contort with the same amount of pain.

"Man, listen, I know how you feel—"

"How could you possibly begin to grasp how I feel, Dean?" Cas intercepted coldly, never once glancing his way. Dean's jaw twitched at Cas' "woe-is-me" act. He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering if he should swallow the words that were fighting their way to his lips, but Dean was never one to back down easily. Instead, he scoffed and marched in front of the angel.

"You think just because you're an angel and I'm a human that I don't get it? Screw you, Cas," he growled. This time, Cas lifted his head to meet Dean's narrowed green eyes. Dean jabbed a finger in Cas' direction as he rambled on. "Let me tell you something: I know _exactly_ how it feels to have a father like that. Being John Winchester's son was no picnic. After Mom died…he was downright obsessed with finding the demon that killed her, and that meant training us like soldiers. Other kids are taught to hide under the blankets and turn on the lights when they think a monster's under their bed. Us? No. No, me and Sam were taught how to kill those monsters in cold blood. I was just like you once—mindless and obedient to a fault. There was a time when I followed my father's every last command, like a good little soldier. You know what? I think Sam was right. Maybe I was desperate to win approval from the man, because he wasn't the type to kiss you on the head and tell you he was proud. I did it without thinking, without questioning for so long. You have to believe that your father knows what's best, that his way is the right way, and that his word is the only one that matters. News flash: sometimes fathers disappoint their sons. I put every ounce of faith I had in the man and all the time I was jealous of Sam because Sam would have the guts to fight back, to question his judgment, to live his own life. I never had that chance. For such a long time, Sam and I searched for our father, just like you tried finding yours. When we finally found him….well, let's just say it was a bit of a letdown. So did you ever think that instead of answers, you'll only be inviting more disappointment?"

At last, Dean fell silent, his chest heaving with each furious breath. He turned his back and concentrated on getting his breathing under control. His throat felt tight and hot, as if someone stuck a red-hot poker down there. Even now, his father's command rang loud and clear as a gunshot in his ears, a broken record: "No crying; that's weakness. Hunters aren't weak."

"I guess I had that on my mind for a while," Dean said. At least Cas had the decency to look ashamed for making him spill his guts.

"I'm sorry, Dean…but what is your point?"

"The point is, don't beat yourself up over this. It's not your responsibility to pay for the sins of your father—and believe me, everyone has sins. You only do the best you can. I found my father, and trust me when I say it was easier finding Waldo." Of course, Cas didn't get the reference, evident by his blank expression and classic head tilt. "Never mind. Who's to say you won't find yours? Until then, do yourself a favor, and make your own choices."

Cas nodded slowly, absorbing Dean's advice. Only time would tell if he would follow it or not.

"Thank you, Dean."

"Don't mention it. And...do me a favor. Don't tell Sam about what I said." It wasn't just the fact that he had more or less admitted that Sam was right. Dean didn't want Sam to stare at him when he thought he wasn't looking, like he was some kind of wounded animal that needed tending.

Cas dipped his head respectfully.

"Of course. This is between you and me, Dean."

Dean would never admit it out loud to anyone, not even Sam or Cas, but he wished someone had been there to tell him the same damn thing.

…..


	40. Snip, Snip

_**A/N: I know it's been a while since I've updated this one-shot collection. Real life has become a bit busier these days. This one-shot idea came to me randomly while I was rewatching the pilot. In the pilot, young Dean Winchester has longer hair than he ever does in the flashbacks after that. It made me wonder when he cut it into his usual style that we see now. Well, here's one theory.**_

 _ **Enjoy and thanks for reading!**_

 _ **Snip, Snip**_

It was snowing.

Light golden wisps swirled around Dean's head and kissed his eyelashes, even before he had the chance to pry them apart. At the moment, it was through heavy, half-lidded eyes that he glimpsed those twirling flakes against the blinding silver glint of the sun.

It didn't occur to him to wonder why it would be snowing at all in his bedroom or why the temperature wasn't below freezing as he curled up beneath his black and yellow Batman covers. The thought of snow was enough to lift his childish spirits.

For some reason, the flakes of snow did not melt away. Instead, they tickled his skin as they landed on his cheeks and neck. Blindly, Dean reached up to brush them away with the back of his hand. The more his brain emerged from the warm, thick fog of sleep, the more he suspected that something wasn't quite right.

The sun glinted silver again, momentarily blinding him as he cracked open his eyelids, but this time his ears began to work properly and noticed a strange sound accompanying it. The soft hiss of metal near his ear. Dean forced his eyelids fully open and recognized the silver, glinting object for what it was.

Scissors.

And the snowflakes were not snowflakes at all, but tufts of his own hair, soaring through the air with each snip, sprinkling his shoulders and pillow. Above him, he met his brother's determined hazel eyes as Sam went to work giving him a haircut he never wanted.

"Sammy!" he cried out, bolting upright in bed. Sam had hunched over him as he worked, but now tumbled back on the covers from Dean's sudden movement. For a brief second, panic pulsed through Dean's chest as he envisioned those sharp metal scissors hurting Sam. He snatched them away, just to be safe. "Sam, what did you do?"

"I...I'm playing...haircut?" he murmured, flashing those innocent puppy eyes at his brother. It was always the look he gave Dean whenever he wanted something or felt tremendous regret for something he had done. Just the day before, Sam had used that same look to convince Dean to play barbershop with him, if only to keep him quiet for a little while.

Of course, that had been with fake, plastic scissors.

Dean ran his fingers over the top of his head and felt several patches of hair missing. The ends of his hair were uneven and choppy. Before, his hair was long enough to reach his jaw, but now one side of his head sported hair that was longer than the other. Where there should have been hair past his ears, his hand squeezed only air.

" _Daaad_!"

Heavy, urgent footfalls thundered down the hallway. In an instant, John Winchester's shadow filled the doorway. Half-awake, John's red-rimmed eyes swept the room until they locked onto his two sons, both of whom were in no immediate danger except for the gleaming pair of scissors in Sam's fist.

"Sam, what do you think you're doing with those?" John scolded, storming into the room to make a grab for the scissors.

Sam could be a fussy child and so he squirmed away from his father's reach, leaping off the bed with the scissors proudly waving above his head. John caught him before he escaped out the door, lifting up Sam and removing the scissors from his hand. Sam wiggled around in John's steel grip and whined as his father placed the scissors on the bedside table, but it was no use.

"Dad, look! Sam cut off all my hair!" Dean protested, shooting an angry look at Sam. John scanned the flakes of hair on Dean's covers and then Dean's head, which bore several uneven patches. John grimaced.

"Well, the good news is: he didn't cut off _all_ your hair. The bad news is: I'm going to have to cut a little more to make it look good again."

John set Sam down on the bed and grabbed up the scissors before Sam could steal them again. He made a silent gesture for Dean to scoot to the edge of the bed. As much as he didn't want his hair cut, Dean obeyed his father's command, shifting so that John could get a good look at his head.

"Haven't I been saying anyway that you ought to keep your hair short when you're out hunting with me? This might be a blessing in disguise," John murmured. Dean didn't answer, his chest burning with anger as more strands of his hair danced their way past his eyes, whispering across his bed like crumbling leaves in autumn. He couldn't even bear to look at Sam, who bounced on his knees on the bed, watching in endless awe without ever grasping how Dean felt.

John chopped off almost all of Dean's hair, which now barely reached his ears. It left Dean's neck exposed to the chill of the early morning, for the first time that he could ever remember.

"See? Now nothing can grab you by the hair and catch you off guard. One less problem to worry about," John said, laying aside the scissors and surveying his handiwork. It seemed he always knew how to turn just about anything into a hunting lesson. His weak attempt at optimism rolled off Dean's shoulders and he didn't give any indication that he heard his father's words of wisdom.

Satisfied, John shrugged, collected the scissors, and shuffled out of the room.

Dean hopped off the bed and rushed to the bathroom to peer at his reflection in the mirror. Gone-his once long hair all gone. In its place was one of the most horrible haircuts Dean had ever seen. It reminded him of the pictures he had found once, of the time his dad had been in the war, his hair cut so close to the skull that it almost looked like he didn't have any in that black and white photograph.

Dean scowled at his reflection. In the corner of the mirror, there was a flash of movement and Sam was there, watching with wide eyes. A fresh wave of anger returned and Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother.

"What are you looking at? This is all your fault, Sam," he snapped and shoved his little brother out of the way as he dashed back to his bedroom, back to dust the fallen hair off his bed.

...

No one was ever quite as stubborn as a Winchester.

For the next three days, Dean did not speak a single word to Sam, nor did he look at him unless absolutely necessary. When they rose from their beds in the morning, Dean made a beeline to the bathroom and kept his face turned away, barely brushing shoulders with Sam, like they were two strangers on the street rather than brothers who had been inseparable since birth. At the dinner table, Dean made a habit of asking his dad to ask Sam to pass the salt. He did this so often in those three days that John would eventually sigh and pass the salt himself or grumble about how he wasn't exactly Alfred Pennyworth.

Truthfully, Dean's anger started to simmer long before those three days were up, but he was never good with apologies, either. It was easier to bottle it up and keep pushing on as he was, until something finally had to give. It was by no means healthy, but it was the only way he knew.

In the end, it was Sam who cleared the air.

"Dean?" the small voice piped up from the doorway of his bedroom one lazy afternoon. Dean glanced up from the Batman comic book he was reading behind his math book, narrowed his eyes at his brother, and returned to the dog-eared page. He didn't offer any word of invitation, but he also couldn't seem to get up the energy to yell at him to go away.

After a moment of silence, Sam slunk away, like a miserable puppy that had been neglected too long by its owner.

Half an hour later, Sam returned and padded into the room. Dean's eyes remained glued to the colorful panels, hellbent on ignoring his brother, praying that he would simply go away of his own accord. Instead, Sammy crawled onto Dean's bed and dropped something in front of Dean's face. Dean flinched and reared his head back, no longer staring at the page, but down at the unexpected object in his lap.

"What is this?" Dean picked it up between two fingers and inspected it. A plastic baggie filled with dark fur. No, not fur. Human hair. It was only when he finally met Sam's wide hazel eyes that he was shocked to discover what Sam had done.

"I'm sorry you have short hair now. I want short hair, too." Sam's hair, or what was left of it, stuck out at every angle, with some strands jaggedly shorn at the ends. His hair hadn't been as long as Dean's, but now the majority of it was gathered together in clumps in the plastic bag in Dean's hand.

For once, Dean was speechless. He looked from Sam to the little bag of hair, wondering if somehow his eyes had played tricks on him. Had he only nodded off while thumbing through the old comic book, or did he really underestimate Sam's guilt?

The anger had drained out of him completely, his lips opening and closing without a sound. All he could do was reach over and tug Sam into one of their tight brotherly hugs, the kind that threatened never letting go. In a moment, Sam hugged back, linking his arms around Dean's neck and holding on for dear life. For the first time in three days, Dean offered his brother a smile.

"Don't be like me, Sammy. Keep your hair long." Dean frowned at Sam's crooked, choppy ends. "When it grows back, anyway. Here, let's make it look good again before someone confuses you with Edward Scissorhands' twin."

Dean led his brother into the bathroom, where their dad stowed the scissors behind the mirror. With careful _snip-snip-snip_ s here and there, Dean trimmed Sam's hair until it looked partly decent again.

It was the first and only time Dean could ever remember taking a pair of scissors to Sam's hair.

...


	41. The Storm

_**The Storm**_

Dean hated thunderstorms.

It wasn't just the fact that blue light flashed through his window every time he cracked open an eyelid or that the roll of thunder hurt his ears. It wasn't because pellets of rain pounded on the glass like hundreds of tiny knives aiming to shatter the window or the occasional power outage casting them in complete darkness until morning.

Sometimes his dad warned him about the monsters that made the lights flicker when they were close. Dean wondered if the same demon that took their mom had finally come to finish them off. That was why Dean kept a small baggie of salt under his bed and a knife under his pillow, just in case the monsters showed up.

The real reason Dean hated thunderstorms was because they always frightened Sammy.

 _Crash!_

Another tremendous roll of thunder struck his ears. Dean's heart raced and he held the pillow against his face to drown out the noise. His fingers brushed the cool blade of the knife.

As if on cue, a piercing wail erupted from Sam's room down the hallway. The cry of distress carried on even as another roll of thunder threatened to drown it out. Dean knew that Sam's cries likely wouldn't stop until he was safe in either his or their dad's arms.

Dean tossed back the covers and got to his feet. The floors were cold under his bare feet, but he barely gave it a thought as he hurried out of his room and down the hall to Sam's nursery.

There were just as many shadows lurking in the corners of the nursery as there were in the hallway between their rooms. For a moment, Dean thought he saw one shadow move and considered running back to get the knife from under his pillow. Who knew what sort of monsters hid in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to torment little children like Sam?

A flash of blue lightning lit up the nursery and illuminated the only source of life to be found there. Sam was in his crib in the middle of the room, wiggling around helplessly on his back, his face red and scrunched up as he cried.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean whispered soothingly through the white bars of his crib. "I'm here. You don't have to be afraid anymore." The last of Dean's words were cut off by a sharp crash of thunder that nearly shook the house under Dean's feet. Sam screamed louder than ever.

Dean reached down into the crib and scooped his baby brother into his arms. Just like he watched his dad do before, he walked the floor, from one end of the room to the other, bouncing Sam in his arms, and speaking softly in his ear.

"It's okay, Sam. It'll be over soon, I promise. It's not that bad," he whispered, though he wondered if Sam even understood through his constant wailing.

When it seemed that Sam wasn't ready to give up crying, Dean knew there was only one thing that could calm him down. A lullaby usually did the trick. Off the top of his head, Dean didn't know many lullabies, so he chose a song that he heard playing in his dad's car just the day before.

" _Carry on, my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest. Don't you cry no more."_ Dean gently rocked Sam in his arms to the rhythm of the song. He didn't know the entire song by heart, so he sang the main part again and again.

Miraculously, Sam's cries began to soften, turning from a piercing wail into a dull roar, from a dull roar into a whimper. Dean cradled Sam's head on his shoulder and he sensed it the moment Sam fell asleep again, leaving a damp puddle of drool on Dean's pajama shirt.

Luckily, the storm was starting to fade away into the night, with only a low rumble of thunder here and there. The drumming of the rain slowed on the glass, until the drops slid down like loose tears. With any luck, the storm would stay away and not wake Sammy again that night.

Dean lowered Sam into his crib again and tucked the blanket around his frail body to keep him warm. He bent down and kissed Sam's rosy cheek.

"Good night, Sammy." He tiptoed out of the nursery and scurried back down the hall, crawling under the warmth and protection of his own covers, tugging them up to his chin to ward off the cold.

Under his pillow, his fingers found the knife again and he pulled it out to examine it in the moonlight. Tonight, there had been no monsters to torment them. Only a thunderstorm.

After a moment, Dean leaned down over the side of his bed and tossed the knife next to the bag of salt. He had a feeling he wouldn't need it tonight.

….

 _ **A/N: Sorry it's been so long since I've updated. Fortunately, my urge to write one-shots has been coming back lately. What do you guys think of Season 12 so far?**_


	42. Wings

_**Wings**_

 _Whoosh!_

One minute, Dean had been poring through one of his old favorite magazines in the heart of the bunker's library, enjoying the silence with a nice cool beer. The next thing he knew, a tornado crashed through the place, tearing the magazine from his hands and scattering the loose papers on the table. Hours of Sam's research in finding a new case now littered the floor. Worse, Dean had a mouthful of beer and almost choked on it.

As it turned out, it wasn't a natural disaster, but an angel in a trench coat whose blue eyes looked ready to pop out of his head at any moment.

"Dean," Cas croaked in greeting, his tone every bit as grave as Dean expected. He slapped the magazine on the table, but Dean did not make any move to retrieve it. "I believe I may have found a new case for you to solve."

He made it sound like an episode of _Scooby Doo,_ as if he and Sam were a couple of meddling kids in a brightly-painted van, unmasking bad guys each week. Dean's eyebrows rose in surprise and then knitted together in suspicion. Usually when Cas dropped a case into their laps, it had to do with Heaven and its spoiled, arrogant flock of angels. The less they had to deal with Heaven, the better.

Nevertheless, Dean sat back in his chair, his cool beer untouched in his hand, and gave Cas the benefit of the doubt.

"Okay. What's wrong? And where have you been, anyway?" Cas' trench coat ruffled as his shoulders hunched.

"I was searching for fresh pie for you. _Again_." Under Cas' stony gaze, Dean hung his head. Little did Cas know that Dean had grown impatient and also asked Sam to make a pie run. "While I was perusing the aisles, I made a terrible discovery. The wings of the angels are being harvested. Severed and sold to humans. It is a disgrace to those I once called my brothers."

"Wait…you're telling me that someone is ripping their wings out and stuffing them in packages like Thanksgiving turkeys?" Dean's face curled in disgust as he imagined Cas' black wings, bloody and plucked clean from his back, complete with a sale sticker. Something about it didn't make sense. "Isn't that impossible unless you're sitting in the big office in the sky?"

"Perhaps they've gotten their hands on some of Heaven's weapons. Unfortunately, I'm no longer informed if any of those weapons are missing since I am no longer working in Heaven's favor." Cas lowered his eyes, his lips pressed together in a thin, anxious line. "I've heard stories about this kind of cruel behavior. Gabriel once warned me about this when I was a fledgling, that some humans might seek to harvest an angel's wings, if they only knew how. I always assumed he meant to scare me away from flying too far from home until I was ready. Now…I fear there may have been truth to his words."

Dean's eyes passed over the scattered papers on the floor, to the stairs leading to the bunker's door. His ears remained alert, listening for the familiar rumble of the Impala, but all was quiet. He drummed his fingers against the neck of his beer bottle, weighing the options.

"When Sam gets back, we can—"

"Please, Dean," Cas pleaded, taking a step forward. "There are precious few of the angels left in Heaven's ranks. What do you humans say? Time is of the essence."

Not for the first time, Dean regarded Cas with a sense of pity. How sad and lonely it must be, to be kicked out of the place you once called home, forced to adapt to a strange new world among strange creatures, while your so-called family turned their back. And here Cas stood, with every reason in the world to hate them, but still choosing to protect them, because he swore it was the right thing to do.

In some way, Dean understood it. No matter how many times he and Sam argued or came to blows, he wouldn't know what to do without his brother by his side. _You never give up on family, no matter what._

Dean sighed and set his beer down on the table. Rising to his feet, he shrugged his blue jacket over his shoulders, bracing for the chill of the autumn wind outside.

"Fine. Let's go check it out." Cas readily stepped forward, two fingers extended toward Dean's forehead. Dean jumped back and held up his hand to swat Cas' away. "Whoa, what do you think you're doing?"

Cas stared down at his fingers.

"It would be faster if we teleport," he explained. Dean took another cautious step back, shaking his head firmly.

"Nuh-uh. No way. I told you what happens when you…you know…boop me like that," Dean said, prodding two fingers in Cas' direction. He wasn't sure what to call Cas' fancy teleporting, but he knew he didn't like it one bit. "If we're doing this, we're doing it my way."

Without further argument, Dean made a beeline for the garage. Since Sam had taken Baby on his pie run, they would have to settle for one of the other vehicles gathering dust in the bunker's massive garage.

He wondered if Cas had ever taken a ride on a motorcycle before.

…

The rumble of the Impala's engine disturbed the heavy blanket of silence that had fallen over the bunker. Abruptly, the noise of the engine cut off just outside the sanctuary of the bunker's walls. Another moment and there was the click of a key in the door, followed by Sam's thundering footsteps as his unusually tall frame filled the doorway as he hastened down the staircase. In his arms was a plastic white bag crammed with dessert. It was the bag of desserts that earned all of Sam's attention, lest one pie should tumble the wrong way and be ruined, or else he might have noticed that the bunker was suspiciously vacant.

"Okay, so they were out of full-sized pies, but they had some of these mini pies left. Ah, I got apple, pumpkin, cherry, blueberry, chocolate crème, banana crème….these ought to last you for a…little…while…Dean?" Sam placed the bag of pies on the table and glanced around the library, but there was no sign of his brother. There was a half-empty bottle of beer on the table, drops of moisture still clinging to the cold glass. Papers scattered the floor, as if there had been some kind of struggle. Instinctively, Sam drew his gun and made his way through the narrow halls of the bunker. "Dean? Hello?"

The kitchen, the bathroom, their bedrooms, the dungeon. Behind every door, in every corner, inside every closet, Sam made sure to check in case of intruders or one of Dean's stupid pranks. When he came full circle into the library, he holstered his weapon. The pies remained on the table, untouched.

There was only one option left.

"Oh, no," Sam called out, cupping his hands around his mouth. "It seems I have forgotten the pie. Again." He waited and listened. No running footsteps. No angry brother scolding him for forgetting his favorite dessert. Nothing.

Dean wasn't here.

"Really?" Sam groaned. What was he supposed to do with half a dozen pies?

….

"Brutal, isn't it?" Cas said mournfully, turning his eyes away from the sight. Dean stood by his side in one of the aisles of a local general store and couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

He drove all the way out here on a motorbike with Cas screaming in his ear…for this.

"Cas? These wings are fake." Cas looked from Dean to the packaged black and white strap-on wings displayed in the aisle, tilting his head quizzically. Dean grabbed one of the packages and tore it open, thrusting the feathers toward Cas' hand. "Feel it! See? Not real. They're for people to buy and wear on Halloween!"

Cas' shoulders visibly relaxed. Before he could utter a word, whether in disbelief or apology, a young employee marched past the aisle. When she spotted the torn package in Dean's hand, she paused.

"Excuse me, sir, but what do you think you're doing?" She pointed to the package and the black wings that Dean was holding. Dean put on one of his winning smiles.

"Oh, these? Don't worry, I'm just trying to figure out which pair of wings fits him best." Dean twirled his finger, motioning for Cas to turn around. After a stony glare, Cas did so, allowing Dean to lift his arms and strap on the black wings over his shoulders. "See?" Dean said, sounding quite smug as he pinched Cas' wings. "Now you have wings. Be happy."

"I am _not_ happy. Nothing can replace my real wings, fragile as they may be," Cas grumbled. Now it was the employee that wore a perplexed face. She opened her mouth to object further, but Dean held up a hand to stop her short.

"Relax. We'll pay for these and be on our way." The girl continued to eye them warily as she escorted them to the register. All the while, Cas' new wings brushed the shelves, knocking items to the floor left and right, earning them another displeased look from the girl.

"That'll be $31.50," she announced when she finished ringing them up.

"For _these_?" Dean squawked, jerking Cas toward him as he tugged on the fake black wings.

"I don't make the prices," the girl said with a shrug and extended her hand for the payment. Dean shot Cas a dark look and handed over a couple of crumpled bills that could have been better suited for putting gas in Baby's tank. Or more pie. "Would you like to wear those out, sir?" the girl asked, eyeing Cas' new accessory skeptically.

"Well, I am already wearing them, and I happen to be an Angel of the Lord," Cas answered. Dean didn't bother with the receipt or the torn packaging as he all but shoved Cas out of the store, the fake black wings flapping in his face the entire way. _I swear,_ Dean thought as they made their way back to the motorbike and headed home. _Sam better not have forgotten the pie again._


	43. Lazarus Rising

_**A/N: This one-shot was requested in a review by an anonymous guest, and I'm so glad you did. I never knew that I wanted to write this until now. Consider this a one-shot of the season 4 opening episode "Lazarus Rising" from Castiel's POV. By the way, many thanks to those who enjoy reading these one-shots.**_

 _ **Lazarus Rising**_

As far as humans went, Sam and Dean Winchester were practically legendary to the celestial beings who occupied Heaven. There wasn't a single angel in Heaven's ranks who hadn't uttered their names at least once, whether it be in wonder or mockery. The Winchester boys, the vessels, the boy with the demon blood, the walking billboard of lust and gluttony. There was an endless list of names for them.

Sometimes Castiel liked to watch over them from above, ever since he was a young angel learning to fly. By no choice of their own, they became familiar with the world of supernatural beings that roamed the earth. In fact, they proved time and again that they could conquer it, as they honed their skills and evolved into the two best hunters Castiel had ever seen. Demons, ghosts, vampires, werewolves-nothing could stand in their way as long as the two brothers stood together.

Hunting supernatural creatures for the sake of saving innocent lives, they were self-proclaimed guardians of the earth. Heroes.

Castiel had witnessed it, the incredible torment Dean had endured the moment that Sam Winchester's mortal life ended, his fresh blood pouring out from a knife wound in his lower back. Once so strong, Dean Winchester's world seemed to crumble in an instant with the loss of his brother. It was with pure astonishment and curiosity that Castiel looked on as Dean sealed a deal with a crossroads demon, kiss and all, with only a year to live in return. Condemning his own soul to the bowels of Hell so that his brother may live again and return to him.

Castiel had never known a love so powerful.

Likewise, he knew it the moment Dean's time ran out, exactly one year later on earth. He turned his eyes away from the gruesome sight as two Hellhounds viciously ravaged his body and dragged his soul to Hell.

At once, he expected some fortunate angel to be granted the mission of rescuing Dean Winchester from his cruel fate. Dean Winchester was far from an ordinary human, after all, and the earth needed the protection of both Winchesters in order to thrive in peace.

But the order never came.

Not for four months. What felt like the blink of an eye to angels was more like forty years in Hell.

Four months was so little time, and yet Sam Winchester's pain could have easily lasted an eternity without fading.

For four months, Castiel watched as Sam struggled to move on and fill the empty space his brother had left behind. Every day for the first month, at the first sign of light on the horizon, he drove out to a barren field, to a crooked cross that served as an unmarked grave. He would leave behind fresh flowers and plastic containers of untouched pie beside the cross. Sometimes he would speak to that wooden cross, summarizing the events of the day and confessing feelings that he never shared with any other living soul. Pain, regret, loneliness. More often than not, Sam would simply hang his head, his long hair shadowing his grief-stricken face, and Cas would make every effort not to eavesdrop on his prayers.

The next month, Sam 's visits became less frequent and he did not always remember to bring pie. By the third month, he stopped going to the grave altogether. Instead, he pushed away Bobby's every attempt of comfort or company, and he began to follow a desperate vendetta to track down the demon Lilith in his brother's name. A futile endeavor. If Lilith did not want to be found, there was nothing Sam could do. Even if he did find her, it was more than likely that Sam would be struck down before he could vanquish her. Perhaps Sam did not care, desiring only to be at rest with his brother once and for all.

Castiel could not understand how any human with the gift of life and free will could give it up so easily, but Sam and Dean did for each other without a second thought. It was a peculiar sensation, warming his entire entity from the inside out.

He wondered why it had taken so long to decide on such an action as saving Dean from Hell, though he never voiced his concerns aloud. To breathe a word of doubt or question orders was to tiptoe closer to the line of disobedience in Heaven. Lucifer's fall had taken place countless millennia ago, but the consequences were never far from any angel's mind.

Even stranger was the day that Zachariah appeared by Castiel's side to personally deliver the order.

Often, Castiel sought peace and refuge in the Heaven of an autistic man who had died in his bathtub. An endless perfect Tuesday on a sunny afternoon, with a red kite swirling and spinning across the clear blue sky. Zachariah's presence was like a dark cloud blotting out the sun.

"Hello, Castiel," Zachariah greeted, his voice oozing false charm. One leg rested over the other as he claimed the seat next to Castiel, his hands folded neatly over his knee. Zachariah had four faces in Heaven, one of which was a lion. That day, he resembled a sharply-dressed business man better suited behind an impressive desk than a wooden park bench. A crocodile smile curled over his face.

"Zachariah," Castiel responded on cue. All the while, he focused on that delicate red kite fluttering across the sky. He was not particularly fond of the angel Zachariah, regardless of his superiority, and only wished this business matter to be brief.

"Listen, kiddo, I have an interesting proposition for you. Give you a chance to stretch your wings," Zachariah announced. He snapped his fingers in front of Castiel's face to command his undivided attention. Gone was the image of the red kite, replaced with Zachariah's crocodile smile. "That's much better. I'm sure you've heard of that hot shot Dean Winchester's bonehead move of selling his soul?"

Castiel winced.

"Yes, I've heard of Dean Winchester's _sacrifice_ ," he answered. Zachariah waved it off with his hand.

"Tomato, to-mah-to. Turns out, the kid finally bit the dust and took the one-way plunge to Hell. Unfortunately, God still needs him on the chessboard." Zachariah dipped his head closer and Castiel fought the urge to inch away. "Here's where you come in. I need you to fight your way down there and retrieve him."

Judging from Zachariah's smirk, it was impossible for Castiel to hide his surprise. Out of all of Heaven's finest angels, including the Archangels, _he_ was entrusted with the task of finding and saving Dean Winchester. At first, Castiel felt only pride and honor of being given such an important mission. On the heels of it, there was a tendril of suspicion that threatened to hinder it.

"With all due respect," he spoke carefully to his superior, "why now? It has been four months on earth since Dean Winchester has descended into Hell."

Zachariah ran his tongue over a set of perfect white teeth and examined his manicured nails. Castiel knew the angels well enough to know that this one was stalling, silently debating over how much to confide. Knowledge was power and the limit of such power varied depending on an angel's rank in Heaven.

"It turns out that Dean Winchester has broken the first seal."

A cold feeling of dread spread through Castiel's entire being. The first seal. A Righteous Man shall spill blood in Hell. There were over six hundred seals in all, but only sixty-six seals needed to be broken to release Lucifer from his cage in Hell. As a result, the first and last seals were the most crucial.

Perhaps fate had something truly great in mind for Dean Winchester after all, if not something terrible.

"Why me?" Castiel dared to ask, barely a whisper.

"Because you're 'special'?" Zachariah sneered, using air-quotes. "Because we threw some names in a hat and picked yours? How about this one: because God wants it this way."

"You and I both know that God has been absent for some time."

It was more of an assumption on Castiel's part, since precious few angels were lucky enough to speak to God directly, but the narrowing of Zachariah's eyes and grim set of his mouth confirmed it. Even if his superiors were not willing to admit it, for fear of panic, Castiel sensed it, that there was something not right in Heaven.

The mask of charm and composure fell away from Zachariah's face, betraying only annoyance and impatience underneath. His fingers curled like talons over his knee.

"Be a good little soldier and do as you're told, Castiel," he warned in a tone wrought with danger. "Or I'll give this mission to an angel more appreciative of it. Now, go fetch Dean Winchester."

In the blink of an eye, Zachariah was gone. The dark cloud disappeared and the sun returned, but Castiel hardly felt at peace. He offered the bright red kite one last glance and then, with a ruffle of his wings, he too was gone, soaring down into the depths of Hell as fast as he could.

...

Dean Winchester was locked away in one of the lowest levels of Hell, one step above Lucifer's unholy prison. It took every ounce of Castiel's strength to crawl through darkness and demons to reach him, claws and teeth threatening to tear his wings to shreds. By the time he reached Dean, there was almost nothing left of his humanity as Hell burned it away piece by piece.

At some point, Dean had been taken off the rack of tortured souls and had picked up the instrument of torture instead. Deep gouges and tears of blood marked the places in his skin where the hooks and chains once held him, but now Dean wielded deadly blades of his own, shedding the blood of other souls in an attempt to feed a powerful bloodthirst. Castiel wondered how long it would be before Dean's eyes turned black, for then there was no going back. His soul would forever belong to Hell.

Castiel's angelic aura extended through the cold flames and darkness to brush Dean's hand. The raised scalpel paused, the tortured screams quieted, and Dean finally emerged from his dark trance. _No more,_ Castiel silently bade him, urging his wounded soul to find peace. It was harder for angels to call upon their power in Hell than on earth or in Heaven, but still Dean turned his face up, shielding his eyes against the glare of Castiel's true form.

Those eyes were the color of the earth that Dean swore to protect-a lively green brimming with determination, caution, but most of all, pain.

Castiel removed the rusty blade from Dean's grasp. It would shed no more blood. Then he gripped Dean's left shoulder, his true form leaving an imprint on his skin, the divine touch easing his suffering at last. The other arm looped around Dean's waist as Castiel held the man's broken body close, his wings sheltering him from the darkness and devastation of Hell. Together, they began to rise, back to the light.

On the way, Castiel sent out a silent message to all the other angels in Heaven: _Dean Winchester is saved._

...

Once Castiel brought Dean close enough to the surface, the last of his strength faded, a powerful blow that leveled all the trees within a fifty mile radius. Without a vessel, angels could not walk among humans on earth. Castiel was forced to retreat to Heaven and conserve his strength, to watch from above as Dean crawled his way up from his grave, gasping for air.

If he was lucky, he would retain no memory of his time in Hell.

It occurred to Castiel that Dean would have many questions about his unexpected return to earth and the purpose for it. Without a vessel, Castiel would have to communicate subliminally, as an unseen force.

Dean Winchester was the Righteous Man the prophets spoke of. Surely he would be gifted enough to understand and communicate with the angels.

A strange sense of excitement and wariness plagued Castiel. Not only had he succeeded in rescuing Dean from Hell, but he would be the first angel to speak to him. How should he even begin to explain? What should he say?

 _Greetings, human?_

 _How are you?_ That seemed like a stupid question, given that Dean had spent what felt like forty years being tortured in Hell.

 _I've enjoyed watching you and your brother for quite some time?_ From what he gathered while observing the Winchesters and other humans on earth, they did not respond well to invasion of privacy. Another staple that came with free will.

The more Castiel pondered over it, the more likely he was to lose his courage. Better to get it over with and trust his natural instincts. Castiel swooped down to observe Dean again. Dean managed to find an empty convenience store and raided it of desperately-deserved food and water.

 _Hello, Dean,_ Castiel whispered, pushing the thought toward Dean's mind. The man stood in front of a mirror mounted on the wall as he examined the red handprint scorched into his skin. On the counter beside him was a television set that flicked on of its own accord, a sign of Castiel's otherworldly presence.

Dean spun around and stared at the television screen. A moment later, he reached over the counter and turned it off.

Perhaps Castiel wasn't trying hard enough to communicate.

 _Hello, Dean,_ he repeated, concentrating solely on Dean's human image. He focused on those two green eyes as he had with the bright red kite. _Can you hear me now?_ The TV turned on again, emitting gray static, but this time it was accompanied by the screech of a radio and the flickering of the lights overhead.

Dean backed away from the counter, the muscles of his shoulders tensed as though readying for a fight. Spinning on his heel, he made a beeline for a can of salt on one of the shelves. Flipping open the lid, Dean poured a line of salt on the windowsill. Castiel had picked up a thing or two from watching Sam and Dean so closely as they hunted together. Clearly, Dean assumed it was the sign of a demon or a vengeful ghost.

Summoning every bit of his power, Castiel tried one last time to get through.

 _DEAN!_

The can of salt tumbled from Dean's hands, the pebbles of salt spilling across the linoleum floor. His hands slapped over his ears, his teeth gnashed together. The windows began to rattle and then the glass exploded, sprinkling Dean's hair and the ground at his feet.

Perhaps that had been _too_ loud.

A few hours later, Castiel tried to talk to Dean a second time, after he gathered more of his strength. At long last, Dean had reunited with his brother Sam, but now Dean was alone in their motel room, asleep on a narrow bed with his head resting on his right shoulder. This time, Castiel spoke to Dean with a simple chant, testing the limits of their connection.

 _Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean-_

The holy light of his true form illuminated the room. Dean's eyes snapped open and he fell off the couch, to his knees. It was working!

 _Dean Winchester, my name is Castiel. I am an Angel of the-_

"Gaaah!" Dean groaned, placing his hands over his ears as he had done before. His body curled in on itself, his eyes squeezed shut, and blood flowed from his nose. Any attempt to communicate with Dean proved useless and worse: it caused him tremendous pain. Reluctantly, Castiel backed off from Dean, leaving him to the comfort and protection of Bobby Singer, who now rushed into the room and to Dean's aid.

There was only one option left to him now. He needed to find a vessel. Each angel had one perfect vessel that could comfortably contain their power while on earth. This one was a devout human being by the name of Jimmy Novak.

...

Castiel shifted restlessly in his vessel as he landed outside of an old abandoned barn that night. It was his first time walking amongst humans on earth and so it would take time to adjust to his true form being confined in a human body and the strange environment that surrounded him.

He was also stiff and aching because he had crashed and rolled off the roof of the barn. It was difficult to teleport with all of of this extra unfamiliar weight. He only hoped no one inside the barn heard the noise from his rough landing.

Castiel paced in front of the barn, shuffling his feet and staring skeptically down at his new attire, experiencing that unusual nervous sensation again. He placed his hand on the barn door, but hesitated. Somewhere inside stood the Righteous Man; Castiel sensed it. The barn was also heavily warded against every type of evil including demons with the intention of stopping them short. Unable to receive his messages, Dean did not understand that it was not a demon that sought him out, but an angel.

This time, he knew precisely what to say, had practiced it beforehand so he could make a good impression on Dean Winchester. Now he paused long enough to recall the words he had chosen: _I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition._ He figured Dean would be more cooperative and openminded if he knew that Castiel was there to help rather than hurt him.

The moment had arrived. Once he entered that barn, once he made first contact with the Righteous Man, there would be no turning back. Their worlds would be intertwined, for better or worse.

Castiel pushed open the doors and stepped into the barn.

Sparks showered around his head and shoulders. Two figures turned at the sound of his entrance, one of them Bobby Singer and the other Dean Winchester, armed with a pistol. The sound of a gunshot split the air and blood stained the beige trench coat that previously belonged to Jimmy Novak, but Castiel did not feel pain. He did not stop or slow in his stride until he reached Dean's side.

Bobby stood in his way, shielding Dean, but Castiel touched two fingers to his forehead and rendered him unconscious for the time being. Dean switched the gun for a blade meant for killing demons and sunk it into Castiel's chest, all the way to the hilt. Castiel glanced down at the blade in dismay and wrenched it out, much to Dean's alarm. The only thing Dean could do now was watch and wait to see what he would do.

Castiel opened his mouth and, for a moment, almost forgot the words he wanted to say.

"I-am-the-one-who-gripped-you-tight-and-raised-you-from-perdition," he recited and winced at the sound of Jimmy Novak's strained voice in place of his own silent angelic influence. Dean's eyebrows knitted together in confusion, his head cocked to one side. His lips twitched, as if he wanted to laugh. Those green eyes were guarded, a reminder that Castiel was nothing more than a stranger.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Castiel," he answered simply, his gaze gliding over the carefully drawn symbols on the barn walls.

"I got that," Dean retorted. "I meant... _what_ are you?" Castiel's attention returned to Dean's face.

"I am an Angel of the Lord." There was a flash of lightning throughout the barn and Castiel proudly spread his wings, as though Dean needed further proof of his identity. The confusion and alarm on Dean's face was now overshadowed by his disbelief.

Perhaps that was why Castiel could never speak to Dean directly without the use of a vessel. The more time passed, the more it was becoming clear that Dean Winchester harbored no faith in God, Heaven, or its angels. Even now, when he stood before an angel who vowed that God had work for him to do, Dean remained skeptical and unwilling to offer trust.

 _What has made you this way?_ Castiel longed to ask, but feared he would not receive a satisfying answer from Dean. It was then that Castiel realized a sad truth about Dean Winchester: for all the people he had saved and all the hope he had restored in his fellow humans, in those green eyes there was little hope left for himself.

...


	44. Behind Blue Eyes

_**A/N: This one might contain a hint of Destiel. I apologize beforehand if that's not your thing. Also, I just started reading the fanfic "Twist and Shout" not too long ago. For anyone else who has read it...I also apologize for that. A certain song has been stuck in my head for quite some time now.**_

 _ **Behind Blue Eyes**_

Blue _._

That was too broad and boring a word to describe the two shining orbs across from Dean. He didn't quite remember how he found himself in this predicament, but now he couldn't seem to free his mind from it. It was a puzzle that demanded to be solved at once or else get under his skin for the rest of the day.

Cerulean-maybe. Sapphire-no, much too dark. Indigo-no, too purple. Aquamarine-no, there were no traces of green to be found there. Just endless pools of blue.

 _Wise men say..._

They changed color. Dean had witnessed it time and again, even when he didn't mean to notice. Sometimes they glowed powerfully from the inside out, brimming with the kind of brilliance that only belonged to the angels in Heaven. They sparkled like a peaceful ocean on a summer afternoon when things were going right and darkened like the midnight sky when something was wrong. Dean could always tell the difference, though he secretly dreaded the latter.

 _...only fools rush in..._

Crashing waves. That was the color they were in this moment, as they flickered ever so slightly to notice Dean. A force of nature. Dark blue around the rims, becoming brighter and brighter as he moved inward, with a spray of white in the center. Darker than the clear autumn sky outside, lighter than the tie and suit he routinely wore.

 _...but I can't help..._

The edges of Dean's lips curled, pleased he had finally figured it out. Not a bad color. If he was being honest, it might even be one of his favorite colors in the entire world.

"...falling in love with you," Sam belted out in his ear.

Dean's head jerked up, his eyelids fluttering wildly as he stumbled out of his strange trance. The three of them were still sitting in the same booth in the same diner, waiting on food while Sam rehearsed some recent news he had dug up, in the hopes of finding a potential case. Only now Sam's eyes darted between him and Cas while he snorted with laughter.

Dean glared.

"Shut up," he snapped, aiming to swat Sam on the head. Sam ducked away, but banged the back of his head on the window behind him instead. That was what he got for tormenting his brother and being too freakishly tall to fit in a normal-sized booth. Sam winced as he rubbed the back of his head, but that smug grin still stretched his lips wide.

Heat climbed up the nape of Dean's neck. He had a terrible feeling that Sam would not let him live this down for a long time. He looked across the table to Cas for help, but Cas appeared as unamused by Sam's childish behavior, with a wrinkle in his brow and his mouth set in a tight pout.

"Your brother started to sing that song a few minutes ago, when he realized you were no longer listening," Cas pointed out. Then he tilted his head, a sign he was seriously perplexed by something, and studied Dean. Those eyes darkened a shade or two as he pondered, nearing the color of the blue denim jacket Dean wore. "What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing," Dean answered abruptly, earning another snort from Sam's end of the table. Dean ignored it. "Just let it go, Cas."

"Let it go, let it _go_ -"

" _Sam_!"

Dean had never been so happy to see his burger arrive.

...

 _ **Of course, I do not own the songs "Can't Help Falling in Love" or "Let it Go."**_


	45. Secret Ingredient

_**Warning: Spoilers for Season 12.**_

 _ **Secret Ingredient**_

Sam would probably never admit it to Dean out loud, but there were time where he didn't mind preparing meals or going out to fetch pie for his brother. Usually, before Dean opened his mouth to make the request, Sam sensed it and his eyes or hand would seek out the keys to the Impala. Unhealthy as it was, food was a source of comfort for Dean when something in their world had gone wrong.

Besides, Sam had retained most of his memories of their childhood and all the times Dean had taken care of him when their dad went out on a hunt. Dean was more like a parent than a brother those days, sacrificing everything from the last bowl of Lucky Charms to precious sleep in order to sing Sam a lullaby.

And Dean never once asked for anything in return.

This was the least Sam could do for his brother. Someone had to take care of Dean for a change.

Even though Sam struggled to accept the fact that their mother had asked for space, the mother that he barely knew gone as quickly as she had returned in their lives, Sam also knew Dean was devastated by her decision. No matter how much he insisted that he understood it, Sam noticed those times when Dean would grow quiet, forgetting that he had a beer in his hand or a case to focus on, and his eyes would glaze over, his mind a million miles away. In those moments, Sam knew he was thinking about her, about how she wasn't here with them.

Dean had even started pushing away his food. That was always the worst sign that something was bothering him.

Sam wasn't going to give up. Now more than ever, Dean needed comfort. So he cooked up a fresh hamburger and a handful of crispy, salty fries. Normally, Dean would not be able to resist. When he got in one of these darker moods, though, lost in his own vortex of self-pity and anger, Sam wasn't sure how his brother would react.

He carried the hot plate of food to his brother's room and rapped his knuckles lightly on the door. At least there wasn't a piece of clothing on the doorknob. There was no answer, so Sam cautiously edged the door open.

Dean was sitting up in his bed, with Sam's laptop balanced on his legs. A pair of black headphones covered his ears and his green eyes were glued to the screen. Whatever he was watching, it did little to lift Dean's spirits. A frown twisted his lips and there was a deep crease above his brow. As Sam drew near the bed, Dean glanced up and slid the headphones off. The volume was blaring, and Sam had no trouble picking up the garble of speech that emitted from the headphones.

This must be Dean's latest tactic to distract his mind from the sore subject of their mother.

"What are you watching?" Sam asked, gesturing to his laptop. _Not more porn that's going to freeze my computer,_ he hoped. Dean's hand brushed across the lid and then he snapped it shut, shoving the laptop off his lap.

"Nothing," he muttered. Sam reached over and opened the laptop. Dean didn't make a move to stop him.

" _The Princess Bride?_ Again?" For the first time since he walked in the room, Sam recognized a spark of light flare up in Dean's eyes, his body sitting up straighter as he got ready to settle this matter.

"Dude, it's a classic! Don't judge me and I won't judge you."

"Judge me for what?"

"You don't think I know the kind of movies you watch on this thing? So tell me: who does Katniss end up with? Peeta or Gale?"

"Those movies happen to be entertaining! And the books are even better. You would know that if you used our library for more than tossing back a beer and playing paper football," Sam shot back. Dean held up his hands.

"I can't even believe I'm having this conversation with you. Nerd."

"Says the guy who can quote the entire speech from _Braveheart_ -in full costume." Dean snorted in response and shook his head. So maybe Sam was purposely provoking his brother, but for a good reason. Dean's energy had returned and he seemed more like himself. "Uh..I made you some food. You haven't been down to the kitchen in a while."

Sam placed the warm plate on Dean's lap, but Dean hardly gave it a second glance, let alone dig in.

"Thanks, Chef Ramsay, but I'm not really hungry right now." Sam watched in disbelief as Dean set that juicy hamburger off to the side, next to the laptop. As Dean stared at the open door and the hallway beyond it, his mind began to wander.

Sam blocked his view.

"Dean, I know you're still reeling from Mom's decision to have some time alone. So am I-"

"I told you, I'm fine. I respect her decision," Dean growled, averting his eyes from his towering brother. Sam danced around the bed, stepping into Dean's line of sight again and again until Dean had no choice but to look at him.

"Do you?" Sam challenged. Dean rubbed his jaw and didn't say a word. "We just got her back. It's okay to feel hurt about this. But you also have to take care of yourself until she comes back."

"If she comes back," Dean said under his breath, barely inaudible to Sam's ears.

"She will come back," Sam insisted. He had to believe it was true. It was the only thought that kept him going, or else the pain of watching his mother leave would swallow him whole. He pointed to the cooling plate of food. "Eat. Please, Dean. I'm worried about you."

Sam gave his brother one last pleading look before leaving him alone to his own devices. Before he turned the corner out of Dean's room, he could have sworn he saw Dean's hand reach for that plate of food. Or was it the laptop instead?

A half an hour later, as Sam was absorbed in the last few pages of the final _Hunger Games_ book, Dean's footsteps marched down the hallway. Dean strode into the library and tugged something tightly over Sam's head. Sam dropped the book and flung the strange object away. It was a shower cap.

"What's that for?" he demanded. Dean dangled his fingers in front of Sam's face. It took Sam a moment to realize what he was holding. One long dark strand of hair, almost invisible to the eye, nearly six inches in length. sam smiled shyly up at his brother.

"So I can stop eating your hair!"

"But you ate the burger," Sam pointed out.

"Shut up, Ramsay," Dean called over his shoulder as he retreated to his room. Even as he heard the door close, Sam couldn't help but smile. Maybe there was hope for Dean yet.


	46. Graveyard Shift

_**Graveyard Shift**_

Marcie hated the overnight shift at the Gas n' Sip. People pleaser that she was, she could never seem to build up enough courage to wiggle her way out of it. All she needed was enough money to get out of that blink-and-you'll-miss-it town she resided in and head out on the open road. Did it really matter how she got there?

So here she was, the only one working the empty store, endlessly toying with her messy brown curls and reading the same sentence in her book three times. It was some sappy Nicholas Sparks novel she had picked up an hour before her shift started. Normally it wasn't her cup of tea, but she didn't think it was a good idea to rattle her nerves with Stephen King while she was alone for the night.

Tossing the book away on the counter, she drummed her chewed-up nails, ready to sell her soul to the Devil himself to make time go by a little faster. She downed the last drops of her coffee-already the third one that night. Even if her eyes were beginning to grow heavy, she didn't dare fall asleep. In the early hours of the morning, she never truly felt comfortable all alone in that store. Occasionally someone would come in to pay for gas or a snack to curb their late night munchies. She had never been held at gunpoint-knock on wood-but she knew of one or two fellow employees who had.

Maybe that was why she was the only one stupid enough to work the graveyard shift now. Who knew what danger could come walking through those doors? Nevertheless, she always kept a close eye on the small bottle of pepper spray underneath the counter, just in case.

It was a few minutes past three when two incredibly handsome men walked into the store. She assumed they were brothers from the way they bickered back and forth. They spoke in hushed tones, but she caught snippets here and there-they argued about who was right and she thought she heard the word...werepire? She shook her head wildly. Maybe she was more tired than she thought.

One man was much taller than the other, practically a moose, with a head of long hair that would have made most women jealous and insecure. He gave a shy nod of the head to her as he entered the store.

She was more drawn to the slightly shorter man, the one with bright green eyes and a killer smile. He wore dusty jeans that he probably had to peel off at night-she couldn't help but admire his curves as he turned down one of the aisles. A worn leather jacket covered a set of broad shoulders and well-built arms that were meant to hold someone close. And there was the way he looked at pie the way she knew most men would look at girls like her, almost carnal, with a slow, savory lick of the lips.

She didn't realize she was biting her lip so hard between her teeth until it started to hurt.

For a moment, she wondered what his name was. Tom? Jason? Eric? Or was it something much cooler and mysterious? _I can't believe it,_ she thought, straightening up sharply behind the counter and turning her eyes back to her forgotten book. Heat began to flush her cheeks. _It's three in the morning and I've reverted to a silly teenage girl all because of one good-looking guy._

The two men were still bickering, almost childishy back and forth, but their voices wandered closer. When she glanced up, they were standing in front of the register, waiting to be checked out and not in the desirable way she had been doing. Their arms were full of beer and more pie than any person should be able to eat. With a heavy heart, she imagined he might have a girlfriend. A guy with those kind of good looks? How could he not? He could probably walk into any room and have any girl he wanted with the snap of his fingers.

"Will, uh...will that be all for tonight?" she managed to croak out. She hoped that she didn't sound too silly or desperate as she looked from the tall guy to the one she had been admiring.

"Yup, that'll do it," the tall one answered, putting on another bright smile as he dug out his wallet.

"I don't know, Sammy," the other one interrupted. _Sammy._ So she knew the moose's name. The mysterious one examined a tray of colorful rabbit's foot keychains on the counter. "You think we should invest in one of these for Baby? We could use a little luck in our lives." _Baby._ That must be his girlfriend.

The bright smile vanished from the moose's face, replaced with an impatient glare reserved for his brother.

"Dean, do you remember what happened the last time we picked up a rabbit's foot?" _Dean,_ she repeated in her head. Not an entirely common name these days, but she decided that she liked it on him. Dean's face was blank as he seemed to think back on something. Then he snapped his fingers, his green eyes lighting up in a way that made her breath catch in her throat.

"Oh, yeah. That's right. Do you still need to make a stop at the local shoe store?" Dean snickered while Sam rolled his eyes. She sensed there was some kind of inside joke between them that she would never be allowed to understand. Nor did she have the courage to ask. Dean tossed down the rabbit's foot as if it had burned his fingertips.

"That comes to $38.24," she announced and reached out to accept the cash from Sam's hand.

As she did, something caught her eye. A streak of dark red staining the sleeve of his plaid shirt and the palm of his hand. It could have been anything, but still the sight of it froze her body in place and set off the alarms in her head. Surely that wasn't...blood?

"What is that?" she uttered weakly, her eyes glued to the red smudge.

Sam's mouth dropped open as he followed her stare.

"That? Uh..." He tugged the sleeve of his jacket down. That only made the alarms ring louder. If there was a reasonable explanation for it, why would he try to hide it? And why was he finding it so difficult to explain it away? "It's not what you think-" he smiled sheepishly, but she didn't smile back this time. Instead, her hand inched toward the bottle of pepper spray under the counter.

"That's just red paint," Dean chimed in. Marcie kept her hand close to the pepper spray, unsure whether to believe him yet. She couldn't decide if her suspicion made him seem less attractive. "Don't you remember, Sammy? He and I were staying up late tonight and painting over our kitchen. He's just mad because I picked out the color."

Sam gave a small nod of the head. Marcie's hand relaxed, though her heart wasn't nearly as light. Why were all the good ones somehow unavailable? It was because of her rush of disappointment that she didn't notice how Sam gaped at Dean like he'd lost his mind.

"Oh. Okay. I'm happy for you two," she murmured and finished their transaction, thrusting the white bag full of pies toward Dean. "Have a nice night." Her eyes darted to the clock as they left and she blew a stray curl away from her face. Only a half hour had gone by, and there were still five more to go until she was free.

...

"That was a close one," Dean sighed, preceded by a low whistle as he climbed in behind the wheel of the black Impala. At this hour, it was the only car parked in front of the Gas n' Sip. He laid the bag on his lap and poked his head inside, feasting his eyes on the delicious prize.

"See, Dean? This is why we shouldn't go out in public the minute we finish up a hunt," Sam scolded, claiming the passenger seat beside Dean. He did the best he could to rub away the spot of blood on his hand. "By the way, you do realize that girl liked you, right? She couldn't stop drooling over you. And now she thinks you're gay."

Dean cast a last longing glance at the Gas n' Sip before he pulled away. That girl was pretty cute, but he hid it with a shrug. It was just one more sacrifice of being a hunter in a world full of people who were none the wiser.

"Better than having her think we're psychopaths."

...


	47. A Merry Little Christmas

_**A/N: I'm not sure where the inspiration for this one-shot came from, but it's a Christmas one. A little bit happy, a little bit sad. Set in the year between S5 and S6.**_

 _ **A Merry Little Christmas**_

 _Have yourself a merry little Christmas..._

Dean winced as the song came over the radio. Christmas songs were supposed to inspire good cheer, weren't they? This one only made him more melancholy than usual, enticing the dark painful memories in the corners of his mind to creep every closer. Sometimes it was hard to keep those memories at bay, even for the sake of his own sanity.

He spun the dial, searching for a more familiar station. AC/DC's "Hell's Bells" rang out through the truck's interior.

"Ooh, turn it up!" Ben demanded from the passenger seat, an impossibly wide smile on his face. For years Dean had been so used to hearing a complaint to turn the music down that Ben's enthusiasm caught him off guard for a moment, but he didn't hesitate to fulfill the request. It was nice to ride along with someone who appreciated his taste in music.

When he wasn't playing air guitar, Ben was busy talking his ear off. It had been Dean's idea lately to let Ben take a turn behind the wheel, the two of them taking a short drive around the neighborhood. Today, it was an early Christmas gift from Dean. Now it was all the kid cared to talk about.

"And did you see me make that turn? It was good, right? When can we drive again, Dean? Can we do it tomorrow? Or this weekend?"

"We'll see what your mom says. You know she's the boss around here, not me," he said, leaning over to rufflle Ben's dark hair. Ben ducked away, since he had reached the age where he stopped liking that sort of treatment. He crossed his fingers, praying to somebody up there to make his mom say yes to the idea.

Dean couldn't blame the kid for his excitement. He had been the same way, just as eager to get behind the wheel for the first time, and he remembered the sense of pride he felt when his dad called it smooth sailing.

Another memory rose up from the darkness: a memory of him teaching Sam how to drive around Bobby's junkyard. It had been some of the most fun they had together, kicking up dust under their tires as they drove in circles. There had also been a forbidden thrill to it, since their father had still been reluctant to teach Sam how to drive then. Sam wore the same exhilarated smile that Ben wore now, his mouth moving a mile a minute, and his heart pounding from the adrenaline.

Dean forced the memory back into the box labeled _Sam_ in his mind _._ Just in time, too, because he was about to drive right past their house. He made a sharp turn and guided the truck to a rumbling halt in the driveway.

"Home, sweet home," he mumbled, but somehow that never quite rang true to his ears. It had been a few months since he knocked on Lisa's door and all but begged her to take him back. He accepted her offer of beer and he stayed for all the rest, moving everything he had into her cozy home, sharing a bed with her every morning, and being there for Ben. He was comfortable living with them for the most part, he was happy with Lisa and Ben by his side, but something was missing. It wasn't just the fact that he gave up hunting, though his instincts still kicked in from time to time.

If he was being honest, he was here because of an old, final promise he made to Sam. Even now, everything he did was because of his brother.

"Dean, are you coming?" Ben called through the windshield, waving his arms in the air to get his attention. He hadn't even heard the kid get out of the truck.

Killing the engine, Dean stepped out onto the icy driveway, flakes of snow dusting his hair as a light blizzard started up for the third time that day. _Some weather we're having,_ he thought, blinking away the snowflakes from his eyelashes. The world felt colder ever since Sam jumped into that pit of Hell with the Devil riding shotgun, but maybe that was the way it should be.

As he trekked through the snow to the garage and lifted the door open, something hit him square in the back. Spinning around to assess the threat, he found Ben bent over, gathering a lump of snow in his glove, preparing to arm himself again. The boy cocked one eyebrow at Dean, the snowball bouncing in his palm, a silent challenge.

Dean wasn't the type to back down without a fight.

"You know what you're getting yourself into? If I were you, I'd put down the snowball or else," he warned, a smile tugging the corners of his lips.

" _Ooh_!" Ben wiggled his fingers inside his mittens, feigning fear at Dean's threat. "Or else what?"

"I'll show you what!" Ben threw the snowball, but Dean saw it coming and rolled out of the way. "Oh, now you're going to get it!"

Quickly he packed a snowball in his hand and sent it flying through the air with perfect aim. Ben squealed as the snowball splattered on the back of his head, chunks of white clinging to his hair. For the first time in forever, or so it seemed, Dean tossed his head back and laughed. Truly laughed, the joyous sound bubbling up his throat and vibrating all the way to his toes. It sounded odd to his ears.

As Dean knelt down to make another snowball, Ben proved to be faster, a hastily crafted patch of snow smashing into the side of Dean's face. Icy tendrils slid down his neck, droplets of frozen moisture rolling across his cheek like fresh tears.

Something switched inside his brain.

Suddenly, he was back there, standing in a gloomy, decrepit building in Detroit, a chill in the air unlike any he had felt before. The kind of cold that cut you to the bone and froze the breath in your lungs. The Devil himself loomed from the shadows, a victorious grin already curving his swollen and bloody lips, even as his current vessel deteriorated rapidly. And Sammy-brave, good Sammy-showed no sign of fear as he opened his mouth and finally spoke that one deadly, special word, sealing his fate:

 _Yes-_

"Dean? Dean, are you okay?"

A small gloved hand waved in front of his face and he snapped back to the present, back to quiet snowfall on Christmas Eve, with Ben standing over him, face twisted in concern. "You were doing that thing again. Staring off into space."

Dean scraped the rest of the frost off his neck, desperate to shake the dark chill he felt from those terrible memories. He wished he could say Lisa and Ben hadn't noticed his abnormal behavior, featuring long periods of silence and distance when he was lost inside his own mind, but he knew better. They were simply too kind to say anything. For the first month alone, they had walked on eggshells around him, like he was a soldier recently returned from war who never quite left the battlefield.

For Ben, he put on a brave face. Scrambling to his feet, he brushed the snow from his jeans.

"I was just thinking of something. Nothing to worry about." _Anymore,_ he added in his head, a lump forming in his throat. "C'mon, buddy. Let's see if your mom's got some good food ready for us."

"Yeah! I'm starving!" That blissful grin returned to Ben's face as he raced ahead and it helped chase the chill away from Dean's heart. "I hope she remembered to make us a pie!"

 _That's my boy,_ he thought swiftly, giving him pause. He marveled how Ben had become like a son to him since he moved in.

Not for the first time, he remembered what Lisa once told him, that he was not Ben's biological father, and Dean wondered if that was entirely true. After all, he and Ben shared the same tastes in music, appetites, and behavior. Not to mention the timing fit-he had done the math dating back to his time with Lisa all those years ago. He had done the math countless times.

Most of all, he felt a connection to Ben that he had not felt with any other child, including ones he and his brother saved. A strong sense of belonging, a need to protect him at all costs, a desire to watch him grow and find happiness. Wasn't that how fathers were supposed to feel?

He wondered what Sam would think of Ben. _I'll bet you would love him like family,_ he thought as he followed in Ben's snowy footsteps.

In the garage, Dean's steps slowed. It was a two-car garage, enough space for the truck and another smaller model that was covered up with a white sheet. For a moment, Dean's hand trembled as it hovered over the sheet, but he pulled back before it was too late. To lift away that sheet, to even catch a glimpse of the dusty black hood, toy soldiers in the ashtray, or the empty seats would be too much for him to bear. It would mean inviting in all those memories at once and Dean wasn't sure that was a war he could win.

He carried on into the house.

He never grew tired of walking into the kitchen. It was his favorite place in the house and not just because of the food.

It was always warm and bright, both with sunlight and the soft yellow wallpaper Lisa had chosen. The fridge was covered with photos of the three of them, all smiling ear-to-ear, a scribbled reminder in Lisa's handwriting that they were spending Christmas Day with the rest of her family, and good grades Ben had proudly brought home from school.

There was always music playing, drawing them in. If he and Ben had their way, it was classic rock, but during Christmastime, Lisa fought tooth and nail to stop them from touching the dial. At that moment, Burl Ives was wishing everybody a holly, jolly Christmas. Lisa hummed along, because she never liked the sound of her singing voice, even when Dean insisted it couldn't be worse than his own.

Dean hung back in the doorway to watch the two people he had come to love. Lisa was a mess of frizzy black hair and food stains while getting dinner ready, but he still thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. The appetizing aroma of turkey and pie flowed through the kitchen, making his stomach growl. Ben shadowed his mom's every move, talking her ear off as much as he had Dean's.

"It was so much fun! Dean let me drive all around the neighborhood, but he wouldn't let me go up that one big hill. I did awesome-right, Dean?-and he said I could drive again-"

"Whoa. Slow down there," Dean teased, holding up a hand.

"Well, I'm glad you two had fun. I just hope you stayed safe with all this snow on the road. Excuse me, Ben, I need to take out the pie before it burns." Lisa tucked her frizz behind her ears, slipped on a pair of oven mitts, and gently shooed Ben away from the oven.

"Pie," Ben moaned happily, sharing Dean's dreamy look. His nose was practically buried in the brown crust as Lisa brought it out, inhaling the sweet apple scent.

"Hot," Lisa warned, steering him back a step. "Why don't you go set the table while I finish getting the food ready?" Ben reluctantly turned away from the pie, but with a wink from Dean, he hurried to do as she asked. Dean had made a deal with Ben a while ago that if the kid behaved and helped his mom, he could have the first slice of pie. "And make sure to wipe up all that snow in the hallway so no one slips!" she added behind her son, as she caught sight of his wet footprints on the floor.

"Kids," Dean said, wandering over to Lisa's side and planting a kiss on her forehead.

She turned her face up and kissed his lips. She tasted like cherries and sugar. Afterwards, she gazed up at him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth like she always did when she was thinking seriously about something. It made him want to kiss her again, if only to smooth that crease in her brow.

"Are you sure you should be showing him how to drive so soon? He's still so young..." Her voice trailed off as she glanced again to the trail of wet footprints her son had left in his wake.

"Hey, I learned how to drive by the time I was his age," he pointed out. It was another valuable skill his father thought he should know, "just in case." The crease tightened.

"You learned plenty of things young boys shouldn't know." Dean pulled back slightly from her arms and lowered his gaze, unable to meet her eyes. He knew she meant hunting. When most kids were worried about book reports and sleepovers, he was building his first EMF reader and out hunting for ghosts in cemeteries. Lisa held him close and rested her cheek against his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I just meant...I don't want him growing up too fast. Let's live in this moment and appreciate it."

Dean nodded. He had been forced to grow up too fast after the demon Azazel had killed his mother. It wasn't a fate he would wish on anybody. It was why he had done everything in his power to protect and preserve Sammy's childhood for as long as possible.

And in the end, Sam had been the one to protect him by jumping into the pit with Lucifer. _No!_ Dean stopped himself, squeezing his eyes shut. He was aware of Lisa watching him closely, her warm brown eyes troubled. He hadn't exactly been living in the moment lately.

"Let's start with that turkey," he suggested, licking his lips. Lisa smiled for him, but it wasn't as cheerful as it should be.

Dean helped her carry the turkey into the dining room while she followed with bowls of cooked carrots, beans, and cranberry sauce. There was also a tray of rolls, oozing with melted butter. It was more food than Dean had ever seen in one place.

For his part, Ben had set out three places of plates and silverware. Festive red and green paper napkins were folded neatly by their plates. A carton of egg nog waited on the table, though Ben's glass was already stained with a pale yellow film. His head was bent down over the screen of a handheld video game. Dean smiled fondly as he recalled how he once coached Ben to stand up for himself and get it back from a bully. Nowadays, it rarely left Ben's sight.

"Put it away, Ben. Dinner is on the table," Lisa told him, not for the first time. Ben barely looked up, all his concentration reserved for the game.

"Oh, but Mom, I just have this one part left-"

"Benjamin Isaac Braeden," she cut him off. It always meant trouble when she used Ben's full name, which was usually Dean's cue to step in.

"Well, if you're too busy playing that game, I guess I'm having the first slice of pie." Dean rubbed his hands together in anticipation. At last, Ben's head snapped up, his eyes wide in astonishment.

"Hey! You promised!" Nonetheless, Ben turned off the video game and placed it on the table. Lisa gave him a displeased look and he moved it to the chair beside him instead.

"And you get to carve the turkey," Lisa announced, handing Dean the knife and fork.

"How hard could it be?" he scoffed. As Lisa took her seat across from Ben, Dean leaned over the turkey. To him, it was a rather large bird, and he had never carved a turkey before. The closest he and Sam had ever come were the frozen dinners sold at the gas station. He waved the knife over the turkey, unsure where to make the first cut.

"Do you need some help?" Ben piped up, snickering. Lisa sent her son a warning look, one slender eyebrow arched.

"I got it," Dean retorted, shielding the knife from Ben's reach. "I just...I've never done this before."

Of course he knew the best way to chop off a vampire's head, but not how to carve a turkey during Christmas. Sam would have known the precise way to do it, would have read all about it in some book or on his fancy laptop, would have chimed in with "so get this" before demonstrating it himself.

"Screw it," Dean murmured and hacked the turkey apart in rapid strokes. He imagined a vampire and brought the knife down again and again, chunks of meat flying in all directions. When he was done, the turkey was hardly recognizable, the meat hanging in shreds with hundreds of stab marks in its skin.

"You killed it," Ben said, looking from Dean to the ravaged bird.

"Technically, sweetheart, it was already," Lisa offered, "but maybe you could go a little easier on it next time." Dean smiled sheepishly. It got the job done, didn't it?

"Dig in," he sang and helped himself to a choppy piece of turkey leg. They loaded their plates with food and Dean stuffed his face until he felt on the verge of exploding. It might as well have been his last meal, for how satisfying it was.

His last meal with Sam had been greasy burgers in an equally greasy roadside joint, with a salad for his health nut of a brother. Their dinners had never been anything close to luxurious, even around the holidays.

As he promised, Dean let Ben enjoy the first piece of pie, moaning in bliss as he shoveled it into his mouth. The kid seemed to have two stomachs. Just looking at pie made Dean's stomach feel even more bloated, but he was never one to deny a fresh, homemade pie.

He took one bite.

"Ugh, I think I'm dying," he groaned, struggling to swallow the delicious lump in his mouth.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Lisa said, patting his hand. "Okay, you boys know the drill. I cook and you two clear the dishes. And I don't just mean into the sink." Ben and Dean rubbed their full bellies, finding it impossible to rise from their chairs.

"One condition," Dean bartered, weakly raising a finger. Even that took great energy to accomplish. "We get to change the music on the radio while we clean up. I don't want to listen to Frosty the Snowman for the millionth time."

"Deal," she agreed and left them to it.

Once they allowed their bellies time to digest, with Ben reaching for his video game in the meantime, they managed to get up from their chairs and go to work on clearing the table. Dean took as many dirty plates and trays as he could carry into the kitchen while Ben was tasked with putting all the extra food in the fridge for later. Chances were good that they would be eating turkey sandwiches for lunch for the next week. Then again, his diet had become much healthier since he started living with them and so he didn't complain.

Dean switched the radio to an old Led Zeppelin song, earning a cry of approval from Ben. Then they tackled the worst part of the job: the dirty dishes in the sink. Dean cringed at the sight of the soggy food going to waste, food he now had to touch and stuff down the drain. _If I can salt and burn dead bodies in a cemetery, I can handle dirty dishes._

"Alright, buddy. I wash, you dry," Dean commanded. Ben saluted him like a little soldier. It was the same routine he and Sam performed whenever their father dropped them off at Bobby's when they were younger. Just like Sam, Ben worked quickly and efficiently, the towel dancing in circles to the beat of the song. He was probably eager to get back to his game.

After they were done and the dishes had been returned to their homes in the drawers and cupboards, they found Lisa in the living room. She was standing next to the Christmas tree, straightening the angel on top and watching the flurry of snowflakes through the frosted glass.

Dean could remember when they had bought the tree and decorated it, less than a month ago. They had been listening to "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree", Ben making him laugh by pretending to dance like Kevin in that one Christmas flick, _Home Alone_. It was one of Ben's favorites to watch and Dean had seen it three times this month.

 _"Why the angel?"_ Dean had asked Lisa then, as he helped her place it on top of the tree. It was a delicate white female angel with glowing wings and a halo. A dull ache had passed through his chest at the sight of it and he had been hesitant to define it. _"Why not a star?"_

" _Ben likes the idea of angels,"_ Lisa told him. _"I think it's because he never had a strong father figure growing up. He wants to know that someone is out there, looking out for him."_

" _He has you."_ He remembered that Lisa's smile had been a sad one, a tired one. Raising a child alone was no small feat, but he thought Lisa had done a decent job so far. She had taken his hand and squeezed it.

" _And now he has you, too."_ At the time, Ben had been out of the room, grabbing a few more frosted cookies that they had baked earlier that evening. When he returned, Lisa smiled brighter for him and turned on the angel to make it glow in a rainbow of colors. " _It's not our Christmas tree until we put the angel on top, right, Ben?"_ And Dean remembered that spark of light in Ben's eyes as he gazed up at the angel on top of the tree.

" _I know a..."_ Dean started to say, bending close to Ben, but stopped himself. Ben tilted his head before Dean tried again. _"I have this friend who's really big on angels, too. I bet you'd like him."_

It had been a while since he had last seen Castiel, but every night, before he settled into bed with Lisa, he had one last drink in the kitchen and prayed to him, begging him to look after Lisa and Ben when he couldn't be there. He never received an answer and he never talked about it to Lisa. It was just another thing from his past along with Sam, something he couldn't bear to think about.

Now another memory eclipsed that one. A memory of a sadder Christmas, with a tiny tree decorated with air fresheners from the gas station and spiked egg nog.

"Can I open my present now?" Ben pleaded, calling Dean back. In Lisa's house, they had a tradition that Ben would be allowed to open one present on Christmas Eve, the rest saved for the morning. Ben eyed one of the larger packages, but Lisa and Dean agreed to let him open a smaller present.

"Hmm...I think I know what it is," Ben said, feeling around the slim edges.

"No guessing," Dean objected. He moved his finger in a circle, urging the kid to get on with it.

"For all you know, it's a pair of cozy socks to keep your feet warm," Lisa teased. Ben wrinkled his nose at the idea of such a disappointing present, but he tore away the wrapping, the paper spiraling through the air like confetti. When he saw what it was, his mouth stretched wide in a Cheshire Cat grin and he jumped up and down in glee.

"This is the game I wanted! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" He raced over to his mom and threw his arms around her waist, the game glued to his hand. Lisa whispered something in his ear and pointed to Dean. The next thing Dean knew, Ben was squeezing him tightly, nearly knocking him off his feet with the force of his hug. "Thank you, Dean! You're the best!"

"Anytime," Dean said, holding Ben to him like he was afraid to let go. Truthfully, Lisa had been the one responsible for shopping for most of Ben's presents, including the one in his hand, having years worth of experience in making him happy. Maybe she sensed that he could use one of Ben's bear hugs tonight.

"That should keep him busy for a while," Dean noted as Ben dashed up the stairs to his bedroom with his new game in hand. Lisa came to him then and wrapped her arms around him, her embrace warm and inviting.

"Speaking of keeping busy...after he's asleep..." Lisa didn't have to finish that thought. Her kiss was answer enough of where her mind was headed. Dean kissed her back, long and slow, always like it was the first and last time.

"Until then?" Dean wondered. It was still the early hours of Christmas Eve. With that new game, Ben wouldn't be sound asleep for at least another hour. Lisa shrugged.

" _It's a Wonderful Life_ is on TV tonight."

"Again?" Dean ducked away from her playful slap, aimed for his head. He knew how much she adored that particular Christmas movie. Lisa pressed a finger to his lips, warning him not to complain, and led him to the couch, the remote impossible to separate from her grasp.

It was usually comforting, having Lisa curled up in his arms, her head resting on his chest as they watched a movie late at night. Yet even that could not distract Dean from the dark memories clouding his mind tonight. No matter how hard he tried to focus on the movie, he found himself dazing off, drowning headfirst in memory after memory of Sam.

After all, this was the first Christmas he had truly spent without Sam. Even when he went off to Stanford, he at least came back around the holidays to have a drink with Dean or a drive in their car. He had been alive then, free of hunting but also pursuing normal, safer dreams of law school. It was different when Sam was stuck in Hell, in Lucifer's cage no less, an entire plane of existence away.

At some point, Lisa stopped watching the movie. Instead she watched him in that concerned, sad way whenever she caught his mind wandering. She reached up and ruffled his hair, the way Ben now detested, the way Dean secretly enjoyed.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly, as if she was afraid to do so.

"Nothing. Why?" He forced a smile, something he had perfected while slogging through years of darkness and pain in the hunting business. Still, Lisa was smart as much as she was beautiful. Having raised a son single-handedly, her BS meter was also an excellent one, and she saw right through it, lifting up straighter to meet his eyes.

"You don't seem to be in the Christmas spirit." She was holding back, hesitant to say what they all knew. Something was bothering Dean, something he wasn't talking about. Hell, he would probably never be a normal, well-functioning human being, not when his mind was in the pit with Sam. He clasped Lisa's hand.

"I'm here," he promised.

"Physically, yes...but your mind is miles away from us." Dean turned his face away, back to the screen though he did not see that black-and-white movie. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about it-he couldn't. Lisa sighed and he could feel the soft vibration flutter through her body. "It's been months, Dean. I know you've gone through a tragedy and I am trying my best to be patient and I'm doing everything I can to help you through this. We're here for you, but at some point, you need to start moving forward."

"I...don't...know...how..." he whispered. It was almost inaudible even to his ears.

There was no moving on from Sam, not when his whole life had revolved around protecting his little brother. Despite his best efforts, Sam was in Hell with Lucifer, cold and alone, being tormented with pain unimaginable. Dean had felt that kind of pain before. What right did he have to be happy when his brother was lost to him, his soul suffering?

Suddenly, his brave face cracked wide open. Everything he'd fought to hold in now engulfed him like water from a broken dam, the tears falling from his eyes before he could even hope to stop them. Lisa's arms cradled him, her lips pressed to his neck, her shoulder quickly becoming damp with his flood of fallen tears. The pain was excruciating, crushing his chest until he could hardly draw in a breath, and Dean imagined he was dying all over again. At the same time, an incredible relief swept through him, a massive boulder of grief finally lifting from his shoulders.

"Feel a little better?" Lisa asked, handing him a Kleenex. Dean rubbed his sore eyes and struggled to compose himself. "One day at a time. It will get easier." For his sake, Dean hoped she was right.

Lisa rose from the couch and went to the window. The snow continued to swirl silently outside, but darkness had fallen over the world, the intense black shadows pressing against the glass. As Dean watched, she turned on a battery-operated candle, the glass shining with its golden glow.

"For Sam," she declared. That was when Dean realized how much he truly loved her. One last tear escaped his eye and he brushed it away with the wadded tissue in his fist. _Merry Christmas, Sam,_ he wished inside his mind.

Lisa returned to his side and grabbed ahold of his hands, dragging him to his feet. She switched off the television and led him to the stairs.

"Now I have something special for you, something that won't remind you of Sam at all." Dean's eyebrows bobbed.

"Oh, yeah? What's that?" Lisa leaned up to kiss him on the mouth. Dean returned it without hesitation. Tonight, he needed this. Distraction from the distractions. "I'm all yours," he vowed and let her guide the way upstairs.

...

Sam lounged in the warm interior of Samuel's van, the windshieled wipers beating the snow away rhythmically to the time of his heart, his eyes narrowed as he watched Lisa Braeden's house from a distance. The window was ajar and the icy wind caressed his face, but he didn't show any sign of feeling it. The cold never bothered him too much after spending time in Hell, in Lucifer's cage. The Devil didn't burn hot as many people assumed.

Come to think of it, he didn't feel much of anything these days.

Through the front window of the house, he spotted Lisa as she turned on a candle. The fake yellow glow flickered through the snowfall, a glistening diamond of light twinkling in the dark night. A moment later, Dean was there in her arms, kissing her deeply before the two of them disappeared from view. Probably intending to make the most of their Christmas Eve together.

So Dean was following through with his promise, no longer in need of his brother or the family business. This new version of Dean was all about picking up Lisa's kid from school, decorating the Christmas tree, hosting summer cookouts. Normalcy.

The glow of the candle glimmered among the snowflakes, catching Sam's eye again. It didn't bring him a sense of peace or hope like it might have for other people. To him, whatever sentimentality Dean and Lisa harbored for it was meaningless and pathetic. It was nothing more than a cheap battery-operated decoration that anyone could purchase around the holidays.

For the first time he could remember, Sam's head was clear and focused, free of doubt, fear, or regret. It made him confident in his actions, closely attuned to his instincts. It made him a better hunter, and he liked it.

Oddly, he didn't feel the urge to knock on Lisa's door and wish his brother a merry Christmas, either. Best not to disturb his apple pie life. Instead, Sam forgot about the candle in the window, started the engine, and drove away without looking back.

He had work to do.

...


	48. O Christmas Tree

_**A/N: Happy holidays, everyone! Here is a funny little Christmas one-shot. Enjoy!**_

 _ **O Christmas Tree**_

"A little to the left...to the right...there!" Dean signaled his brother, giving a thumbs-up. The gesture went unnoticed by Sam, who was completely hidden behind a gigantic Christmas tree, doing his best to straighten it out in the corner of the bunker's library. They had spent most of the day picking one out and cutting it down, dragging it back to the bunker by strapping it to the hood of their black Impala. Dean swore that his Baby was going to smell like pine for a week.

At least it was better than a flimsy tree decorated with car fresheners. Dean toasted that thought with a generous swig of egg nog, the taint of alcohol burning its way into his belly. Sam had abandoned his glass long ago after realizing with the first tentative sip that Dean had spiked it with enough rum to drop an angel.

Speaking of angel...

"Where's Cas? Shouldn't he be back by now?" Dean asked, his words slightly slurred. That was some good egg nog. He poured himself another glass, his cheeks becoming rosier by the sip. Sam stepped out from behind the tree, brushing pine needles from his red plaid shirt and long hair.

"How should I know? You were the one who told him to go looking for Christmas decorations. He probably stopped at every store in the state, just for you," Sam answered, the corners of his lips twitching upwards.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean narrowed his eyes. He could always tell when his brother meant more than what he was saying in words. Usually, it was when he was trying to hide something or poking fun at him. Sam shrugged innocently as he straightened some of the branches on the tree.

"I'm just saying...he's _devoted_ to you." Sam flashed his wide puppy eyes.

"Sam-"

"Remember the mistletoe incident?"

"You were the one who hung it over my bedroom door in the first place!" Just for that, Dean downed the rest of his egg nog, hoping to drown out the memory of that incident and the sound of his brother's laughter.

It was music to his ears when the bunker's front door opened, followed by Cas' swift footsteps on the stairs. There was another sound that Dean couldn't identify: _bonk, bonk, bonk, bonk, bonk!_

When Cas strode into the library, Sam and Dean's eyebrows rose. _Cas is really getting in touch with his Christmas spirit,_ Dean thought, gaping at the angel. A green wreath crowned Cas' head. His arms were full with boxes of red and gold ornaments and velvet ribbons. Gold garland and strings of colorful bulbs snaked around his shoulders and torso, trailing behind him like one long tail: _bonk, bonk, bonk, bonk!_

"Ihabursmasaf," Cas mumbled. His mouth was filled with candy canes.

"Hold on," Dean said and leaned over to take the candy canes from Cas' mouth. They were still wrapped, but Dean debated on eating one. On second thought, he unwrapped one and dropped it into his glass of egg nog. "You were saying?"

"I have your Christmas...stuff," Cas repeated. Sam stepped forward and offered to take the boxes from his arms. Dean unwrapped the garland and lights from Cas' shoulders. "What now?"

"Now we start decorating," Sam announced. He flipped open the lid from a box of ornaments, the light from above making them shine. With a silent look, the two brothers agreed to let Cas hang the first ornament on the tree since he was new to the tradition of decorating.

Of course that meant waiting for Cas to walk around the entire tree, examining it from all angles. Every time Dean thought he was ready to hang the ornament, Cas drew back and reconsidered. It was like he was making a critical move on a battlefield instead of decorating a tree.

"Make up your mind, Cas," Dean grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Patience, Dean," Cas retorted. Dean stuck out his tongue to Cas' back. "You've entrusted me with this task. Let me do it right."

"At least do it sometime tonight," Dean groaned. Sam shot him a dark look, reminding him of his earlier cautionary warning: _take it easy on Cas._ It wasn't his fault he was unaccustomed to most earthly traditions. Angels didn't tread on earth too often.

At long last, Cas hung the gleaming gold ornament in the middle of the tree.

"Hallelujah," Dean sang, shooing his brother aside to grab a few ornaments of his own. The boys covered the tree with gold and red orbs by the dozen. While Sam's arms were long enough to reach the tallest branches, Dean and Cas took care of the lower branches.

At one point, Dean got it in his head to prove Sam wrong. There was a perfect branch above his head, just waiting for a delicate ornament. No matter how much he stretched, he could never reach it. He even jumped and threw the ornament, hoping to catch it on the branch, only to have the ornament shatter into a million gold pieces at his feet. Sam snickered.

"Nice try, Dean. Too short," he taunted, his hand hovering above Dean's head. Dean swatted him away.

"Hey, Cas, you think you could fly your ass up there and hang this last ornament?" He dangled the red orb in front of Cas' face.

"Since I no longer possess fully functioning wings, the answer to your question is no, Dean, I can't fly my ass up there. Or anywhere, for that matter."

"If your wings weren't broken, then could you fly your ass up there?" Cas sighed, sounding quite tired.

"Yes, I could, but since my wings are broken, I can't, which makes your question completely, idiotically irrelevant," he snapped, stopping him in his tracks with an icy glare. Over his shoulder, Dean mouthed the word _touchy_ to Sam, earning him a slap on the back of the head.

"Fine, then just...stand there," Dean ordered, positioning Cas in front of the tree. Dean took another massive gulp of egg nog and climbed up on the table.

"Someone's going to get hurt," Sam warned. It was like watching a wrestling match-Sam couldn't shield his fear as he sensed what was coming. Dean hopped onto Cas' back and swung one leg over his shoulder. Before he could get both legs around, the two of them tilted sideways and toppled to the ground, a heap of limbs and strings of curses.

"Dean!" Cas moaned, dusting off the dirt from his trench coat. Dean writhed on the ground, his head spinning from the impact. Or maybe that was just the egg nog talking.

"I was trying to sit on your shoulders!" he growled back. It almost worked, anyway. He pulled himself up and rubbed his head. "I think I'm bleeding."

"I told you someone was going to get hurt," Sam said, shrugging carelessly.

"Shut up, Sam!" Dean snapped. Just to torment his brother even more, Sam picked up the last red ornament and easily hung it on the branch. Most days, Dean hated being the shorter of the two.

Dean sought his revenge when Sam started to wrap the garland and tie the bows around the tree. He wanted to see how many bows he could stick in Sam's hair before he noticed. As Sam swirled the garland over the branches, Dean lowered a bright red bow on top of his head. Sam never even looked up and Dean almost gave himself away as a snicker rose up his throat.

"Dean-" Cas warned, but Dean shushed him, pushing his finger against Cas' lips.

"What?" Sam asked, turning around. It was a miracle that the bow did not fall from his hair. Somehow, Dean managed to compose his best poker face.

"Nothing, Sam." For a long moment, Sam studied his brother, his eyes narrowed suspiciously and his mouth drawn in a hard line. He knew his brother well enough to know when something was fishy. Their staring contest continued until Sam finally gave in and turned back to the tree.

Dean darted forward and pinned another bow at the end of Sam's hair. This time, Dean couldn't stop the snicker before it escaped his lips. Sam whipped around and the bow on top of his head fluttered to his feet. Dean held his breath, wondering if Sam would see it and put two and two together, but Sam was too busy staring at him, awaiting an explanation.

"What's so funny?" Sam demanded.

"Nothing, Sam, I swear. Cross my heart," he insisted, making an X over his chest. Sam turned to Cas instead.

"Is he telling the truth, Cas?" Nervously, the angel glanced at Dean and away.

"Of course. What kind of man would lie to his brother? That would be ridiculous." A goofy grin slid over his face, all but giving it away in an instant. Dean's head fell into his hand. _Damn it, Cas!_ "No. I'm sorry. He's lying."

"Cas!" Dean scolded. Cas' shoulders slumped.

"You've told me countless times. I suck at lying. Sam, there are bows in your hair, courtesy of Dean." Sam batted the bows out of his hair and sent a sharp look toward his brother.

"For what it's worth, you look beautiful, Sam," Dean said, raising his glass. Sam collected the fallen bows and tied them on the branches before Dean could get any more ideas. When all was said and done, the boys stepped back to admire their work.

"How does it look?" Sam asked.

"It...looks like a Christmas tree," Cas offered. Dean hesitated, studying the tree up and down. The blinking bulbs and glimmering ornaments were giving him a headache.

"Something's missing." He snapped his fingers. "The angel on top of the tree! C'mon, Cas!" Dean marched over to Cas and hugged him from behind. Cas' face twisted in confusion as Dean attempted to hoist him up from the ground.

"Dean...what are you doing to me?"

"Trying to put the angel on top of the tree!"

"I don't think that tree will bear my weight."

"You never know until you try!" Dean squeezed and his face turned red from the effort, but Cas barely budged. Moving an angel was no easier than moving a slab of stone.

To Sam, it looked like his brother was performing the Heimlich on Cas. He went over to break them apart before Dean hurt himself. When Dean sought out his glass again, Sam was faster and confiscated it.

"I think you've had enough spiked egg nog for one Christmas, Dean."

...


	49. Hide and Seek

**A/N: I am so sorry it took this long for an update. Real life has been incredibly busy for me lately, leaving me with little to no free time to write. I'm glad to be back at it again, though. Hope you enjoy this little one-shot of young Sam and Dean.**

 **And I just realized that the next one-shot will be the 50th one in this collection. Any special suggestions on what you would like to see?**

 **Hide and Seek**

"Three...two... _one_!" Dean shouted into the air and whirled around, unshielding eyes. "Ready or not, here I come!"

Bobby's junkyard was the best spot for playing hide and seek. The house itself was bigger than it looked on the outside, but it was also surrounded by a massive graveyard of ancient cars that had outlived their use. Sometimes Bobby warned them not to play around in those old hollowed-out cars in case they got trapped or hurt. Being young boys, Sam and Dean didn't always listen. They had too much fun to worry about the consequences.

The cheap motels they stayed in with their dad were too small to offer many creative hiding spots, so they relished the days when they spent time at Bobby's house.

The thrill of the hunt roared through Dean's blood as he scrambled in search of his little brother. His legs pumped hard as he navigated around the rusty skeletons in Bobby's yard, his brain already compiling a list of typical hiding spots that Sam would choose. _Know your enemy,_ Dad said more than once when teaching him the basics of hunting.

Dean knew Sam better than anyone else in the world.

A deep rumble started up behind Dean and he turned in time to see their dad's shiny black car backing out of the driveway. Even without being able to see through the windshield, Dean knew his dad would be behind the wheel. He didn't trust anyone else to drive that car, not even Bobby.

His dad would be going on another one of his hunting trips. There was no telling when he would be back.

Dean watched the dust kick up under the tires as the car pulled away, feeling a sting of hurt that his dad didn't say goodbye. Maybe if he did, it would be harder to leave. At least, that's what Dean told himself.

He shook it off and focused his mind on the game again. Where would Sammy hide this time? There were only so many places he could reach, being so small. It was usually harder for Sam to find Dean than the other way around.

Better check the house first.

Bobby's house mainly consisted of a small kitchen that branched off of his personal study, crowded with empty beer bottles and mountains of musty open books. They weren't allowed to touch those books, under any circumstances, in case Bobby lost track of some important information he was looking for. There was one bathroom, Bobby's room, and a narrow guest bedroom where the boys slept when they stayed the night.

There was also a basement, but Sam was still too afraid to venture down there, convinced that there was a monster lying in wait to eat him. What Sam didn't know yet was that there were real monsters lurking around in the world. Powerful supernatural creatures thirsting for the blood and lives of innocent people, but none of them were likely to be found in Bobby's basement. According to his dad, Bobby was one of the best hunters he ever met.

If Sam hid inside the house, Dean would be able to find him in a matter of minutes. The junkyard outside meant more ground to cover.

In the kitchen, Dean checked the cabinets beneath the sink, but could only find a bottle of bleach and air freshener covered in cobwebs. The food closet was stocked with cans of beans, soup, pasta, and sauce along with more bags of salt than the average person should have. _For good reason,_ Dean thought, recalling his dad's lesson about always having salt on hand.

 _But what if it's not a demon or a ghost?_ he once asked.

 _Better to have some on hand and not need it than to be caught without it when you do,_ came his father's response. _The life of a hunter is dangerous and unpredictable. Be prepared for anything._

On a shelf above the bags of salt, Dean spotted little wrapped packages of pies and took one. He didn't think Bobby would mind too much. He liked to think Bobby kept some in there for when the boys came over to stay, knowing that Dean could not resist them.

Happily wolfing down a sweet apple pie, he closed the doors of the food closet. He wandered through the study and met Bobby's weary eyes behind the desk.

"Don't look at me. He didn't come through here," Bobby said before Dean could even open his mouth to ask. Bobby always struck Dean as the type of person who knew everything.

"Would you really tell me if he did?" he dared to reply. Bobby lifted his head from the yellowed pages of a dusty tome he was thumbing through. He sat back in his chair and his eyebrows rose, appearing quite startled.

"Have I ever steered you wrong before?"

"No, Uncle Bobby," Dean murmured, glancing down at his dust-caked shoes. He should have known better than to ask that of Bobby, when the most valuable thing Bobby had was his word. Sometimes Sam hid under Bobby's desk, but Dean doubted Bobby would let him hang around when he had serious work to do.

"Listen, a good hunter always trusts his instincts, no matter what they're telling him," Bobby advised. Dean nodded and headed away from the study to continue his search. "Oh, and Dean?" He turned back to Bobby with a questioning look. "You got some apple pie on your nose." Bobby touched his own nose to indicate the spot before lowering his eyes back to the stack of books on his desk.

Dean rubbed the spot away with his sleeve.

"Sam," Dean called out as he crossed the threshold of the guest bedroom. There was only one bed that he and Sam shared. It was just big enough to hold both of them, but the mattress was much softer than the ones in the cheap roadside motels.

Sam wasn't under the covers or hiding beneath the bed, like he sometimes did. Nor was he in the pitifully bare closet. Aside from a change of clothes, the hangers were empty and they never stayed in one place long enough to fill the spaces with many material belongings.

Dean began to wonder if Sam really found a good hiding spot this time. Usually, it didn't take this long to find him.

Under the bathroom sink.

Behind the flimsy shower curtain.

Under Bobby's bed. There was no sign of Sam. He even went into the basement, thinking Sam finally mustered up the courage to go down there. All Dean found was old furniture, sticky cobwebs, and crawling spiders.

That only left the junkyard.

It seemed like an eternity that Dean wandered around the heaping piles of rusted cars, checking underneath for Sam curled up in a ball and trying to stay quiet. This time, there was nothing but swirls of dust in his face and the sound of his coughing as he fanned it away. Dean didn't think Sam was big enough to climb into many of the trunks. The cars closest to the ground were hollow, stripped of the doors and the wheels, so it was easy to see inside without getting too close to the sharp metal frame.

The rising afternoon sun beat down on his head and specks of dust flew into his eyes. His stomach growled, eager for more of those tasty little pies. Dean spun in a circle, no longer motivated to move in any direction. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Okay, Sammy, I give up! You win this time!"

Dean listened, but there was no answer. No scurrying feet as Sam climbed out of his hiding spot, no smug little brother taunting him for giving up too easily.

"You hear me, Sam? Game over! Come on out!"

The only answer Dean got was another lurch of his stomach and more dust in his face as a gentle breeze whistled through the junkyard. Dean didn't think that was the reason for the sudden chill down his spine. His green eyes scanned the junkyard and the house, but everything remained still and silent. Just like a graveyard.

One last time, Dean called out for his brother at the top of his lungs.

" _Sam!"_

Silence.

Dean was past the point of having fun and a tendril of dread crept in. What if Bobby had been right and Sam was stuck somewhere? What if he managed to crawl into the trunk of one of the cars and the lid slammed down, trapping him inside? What if he couldn't breathe and couldn't call out to his big brother for help?

What if some monster had come and hurt him?

 _A good hunter always trusts his instincts, no matter what,_ Bobby had said. Right now, Dean's instincts were screaming at him to find Sam. Finding him alone proved difficult, so he did the only thing he could think of.

"Uncle Bobby!" Dean shouted, racing back to the house as fast as his legs could carry him. Bobby would know what to do.

When he burst into the study, Bobby was on the phone, a deep frown on his lips. His favorite hat had been set aside on an open book while he rubbed his lined forehead.

"I told ya before, ya bloody fool, I'm not helping you bury another...hold on, Rufus." Bobby cradled the phone on his shoulder and turned his head to Dean, who urgently tugged at his sleeve. "What's the matter, Lassie? The barn on fire again?"

Normally, Dean would crack a smile at Bobby's sarcastic jokes, but at the moment his worry for Sam prevailed all else.

"Uncle Bobby, I need your help. I can't find Sam anywhere," he cried out, the first glimmer of tears welling up over his lashes. Dad had given him only one job his entire life: take care of Sammy. Here he was, helpless to find his little brother.

Bobby stared back for a moment, tight-lipped and contemplating, while Rufus' irritated garble streamed from the phone. He didn't bother to ask if Dean had already checked the usual hiding spots; if Dean was coming to him for help, it meant he was in serious trouble.

"You're on your own, Rufus," Bobby barked into the phone and slammed it back in its cradle. He pulled open one of the drawers of his desk and retrieved the revolver stashed there, checking the bullets inside and tucking it into his vest, just in case. Then he jumped up from his chair and let Dean lead the way back toward the junkyard.

"I think he might be out here, but there are too many places to look. What if he's stuck?" Dean sniffled, choking back the sob that clogged his throat.

"We'll find him," Bobby insisted, squeezing Dean's shoulder. "But see? This is why I warn you kids to stay away from the junkyard! You could get seriously hurt and that means your dad will have my head." Dean hung his head, thinking of all the times Bobby had told them and they didn't listen. "Come on. Less talking, more searching."

While Dean ran around scouring underneath the cars, Bobby hefted himself up on some of them to check the trunks and seats of each one. Dean doubted that Sam could even reach that high, but at the sight of his confused look, Bobby explained it was better to leave no stone unturned. For a very long time, the only sounds to be heard were the scraping of their running feet on the dusty paths, the screeching of old doors and heavy trunks, and their labored breathing as they quickly consumed their energy. Every few seconds, Dean called out for Sam again, hoping he was within earshot.

It took over an hour to search the entire junkyard, with the hot sun slowly streaking across the sky. Halfway through, Dean slowed in his steps and then stopped altogether. He leaned against the hood of a battered car and could only wonder where Sam was.

This was all his fault. It was his idea to play the game of hide and seek instead of rock-paper-scissors, and that was because Sam always won. What Sam didn't realize was that Dean often let Sam win. If he didn't, then Sam would get mad and insist they play until he won.

If he had given in and played that game instead, maybe Sam wouldn't be missing.

Bobby lumbered up beside him and removed his cap to wipe the sweat from his brow.

"No sign of him yet. Why don't we check the house again? Maybe there's something we missed," he suggested, steering Dean back the way they came. There was a slight tremor in Bobby's voice that Dean never heard before and he realized Bobby was just as fearful about Sam's fate.

Dean shuffled his feet as he went, his shoulders caving, all the while wondering what he would have to say to his dad. Dread swept like an icy chill through his heart as he pictured his father's face. He would be so angry when he found out he'd lost Sam. Dean would take any punishment his dad doled out without complaint, he knew. _Anything to bring Sam back,_ Dean silently pleaded.

When he and Bobby stepped into the house again, the phone was ringing. Bobby muttered a curse under his breath, a word Dean only pretended not to hear as Bobby snatched up the phone.

"What do you want, you old, senile son of a-" He paused, whatever insult he had in mind left hanging on his tongue. "Oh, it's just you, John." Dean's head snapped up and he watched Bobby while he talked on the phone. Why would his dad be calling when he left not too long ago? Bobby's eyes flickered to Dean, for the first time darkening with perplexity and alarm. "He what? Yeah, yeah, you can save it until you get here."

Bobby hung up and sighed. Dean held his breath, waiting to hear the news.

"Found Sam. Turns out he stowed away in the trunk of your dad's car. Your dad stopped at a gas station and heard him banging around in there." Dean let out his breath in a huge sigh of relief, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Sam was okay and his dad was going to bring him back home.

While he waited, Bobby let him take a few more pies from the food closet and Dean munched on them one after the other, dusting his lips and clothes with crumbs, never moving from the kitchen window. It offered the perfect view of the road, so he could see the exact moment when his dad returned.

"You're lucky it ain't winter," Bobby said as he sat watching Dean from the kitchen table, where he had moved most of his work. "If you pressed your nose any closer to that glass, you'd be the one stuck."

Dean only moved back an inch or so, just enough to please Bobby, but so he could still see the road. The familiar rumble of the engine reached his ears and Dean darted out of the kitchen. He nearly tackled Sam as he slid out of the car.

"Sam! You're okay," Dean exclaimed, wrapping his arms around his little brother until Sam moaned from the tight squeeze. Their dad merely shook his head, not at all pleased that he had to make the trip back. At least he didn't seem to have the energy to scold Dean yet.

"Hi, Dean," Sammy sang in his ear, as if he just come back from a fun sleepover instead of stowing away in the trunk. As if he hadn't just scared his big brother to death. Those had been Sam's first words, and Dean had never been happier to hear them again. His heart was still pounding in his chest from worrying too much.

"Do you still want to play rock-paper-scissors?" Dean asked, holding out his fist. Sam's face lit up like a firework. They bumped their fists in their palms, but Dean already knew he was bound to play scissors again.

...


	50. Fallen

_**A/N: It's been a while since I updated this one-shot series. I apologize for that. Lately I couldn't find the motivation I needed to write and that's mostly because of my work schedule. Hopefully the hellatus will give me a good reason to start writing again.**_

 _ **Major spoilers for the season 12 finale! You have been warned!**_

 _ **Fallen**_

Sam had never seen his brother quite this way before.

This wasn't the first time something truly tragic touched their lives-and it wouldn't be the last. That was the fine print in the job description of being a hunter, the unspoken rule every hunter understood. Yet no matter how bad things got, Dean would find some way to keep moving forward, to always keep fighting.

Always.

This time was different.

Of course Sam had been equally shocked when Castiel appeared out of that golden tear in time and space only to be stabbed through the heart with an angel blade mere moments later. What shook him to the core was how Dean reacted. His cry of anguish, followed swiftly by pure immobility as he struggled to take it in.

Face ashen, kneeling beside Castiel's limp form, memorizing every detail of his blank face and those broken wings charred across the earth. Staring, as if that would somehow change what he saw. It never would.

Sometimes Dean would reach out a hand, let it hover over Cas' chest or his cheek, though he could never bring himself to touch him, as if that small contact would force him to realize that those eyelids would never flutter, his chest never rise with breath. No sign of life whatsoever. It may as well be Jimmy Novak lying at Dean's feet, for there was no trace of the supreme celestial being they called their brother.

It had been over an hour since Cas had been struck down before their eyes. Since their mother disappeared into that alternate reality with the Devil's blood fresh on her fists. Since that tear sealed itself and trapped her there, possibly forever.

It had been over an hour and Dean hadn't budged an inch from where he knelt.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, taking a cautious step toward his brother. At this point, Sam would have gladly taken a punch in the face from Dean if it meant his brother was still functioning on some level. There was no reply, no tilt of the head, no indication that Dean even knew he was there. "Dean? Come on, say something. Anything."

As he drew closer, he realized that Dean's lips were indeed moving ever so slightly, the words on his lips inaudible. If Sam bent his head close enough to Dean's head, he could just make out Cas' name, repeated like a prayer to call his lost soul home.

 _Cas...Cas...Cas..._

Dean was broken.

And for the first time, Sam Winchester did not know how to save his brother.

"Dean, please," Sam pleaded, moving to stand beside Cas' fallen body, where Dean had no choice but to see him there. It was hard to look down at that body and know it was empty inside. Instead, he looked down at his brother, whose cheeks were streaked with silver tears. "Family don't end with blood. I can't believe he's gone, either...but we can't stop fighting now. Mom is lost in that alternate reality with Lucifer-there has to be a way to get her back, right? She needs us. And to save her, I need you. Like I always have."

Dean's eyes barely glanced his way.

That was it. Short of dragging Dean away, there was nothing Sam could do to bring him back from the edge of that abyss. All he could do was let Dean grieve and hope he could find a way to move past this.

For so long, Dean had been the strong one, always there to protect his little brother from the world, but who was there to take care of Dean?

"Maybe you need me now more than I need you. I'll be here if you do," Sam promised. He squeezed his brother's shoulder before turning back toward the house. "Jerk," he added, in the faintest hope that Dean might answer.

For a moment that felt like an eternity, there was only silence at his back.

Then Dean drew in a ragged breath.

"Bitch," he whispered. Sam stopped in his tracks. In that one word was everything Dean wanted to say and couldn't, least of all "I need you, too." Sam heard it clear as a bell nonetheless.

At last, Dean's boots scraped the earth as he climbed to his feet, knees wobbling from kneeling too long. Sam offered him a hand of support, as much to guide him away from their fallen friend as to remind him that he was still there to help Dean heal. Dean bowed his head once more, a silent prayer of goodbye, and then fell into step beside Sam.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean barked, fresh determination in his stride and in his eyes. Call it pain, call it fury, call it hatred for what had taken place here. Sam was only grateful for the moment that it was enough to keep Dean going. "We've got work to do."

...

 _ **Dare I ask: what did you all think of the season 12 finale?**_


	51. Sorry

_**A/N: Again, major spoilers for the end of season 12! I don't know about you, but I was sad when Eileen was killed off this season, all thanks to the British Men of Letters. To honor her, I decided to write this one-shot. Hope you all enjoy it.**_

 _ **Sorry**_

 _Eileen...Eileen...Eileen..._

Ever since Sam first learned about her death, he found himself repeating her name in his mind. A silent mantra, as if that might be enough to erase the horrific tragedy and bring her back to life.

Behind closed eyes, he could still picture her as he'd last known her, intelligent and full of life, an incredible hunter with the courage to try and take down Dagon with the Colt. And in a heartbeat, her face changed to one of immense fear and regret. Then it changed again, to the image of a pale lifeless shell of the girl he once knew and loved.

His hands curled in a deathlike grip around the wheel as he drove through the night, an unwelcome mixture of pain and anger. He could not bear to think of her going out this way, shredded to pieces by hellhounds just as his brother had been when he was dragged to Hell. Deep down, he knew that almost all hunters were bound to suffer terrible deaths due to some supernatural creature, the hunter suddenly becoming the hunted. Somehow this was different. It may have been hellhounds that killed Eileen, but Sam knew without a doubt that the British Men of Letters had been the one to give the command. Murdered, in cold blood.

Had Ketch been there that night to watch her die? Had he smirked with victory as the life faded from her eyes, another hunter snuffed out? Another name crossed off the list?

Sam slammed the heel of his palm against the wheel in a sudden surge of fury, ignoring the pain that throbbed there as a result. He could scarcely remember a time where he felt this angry, save for the days after Azazel killed his girlfriend Jessica. Now he felt that same cold fury rise up as he thought of the British Men of Letters, for hurting someone so kind, for taking all of those innocent lives without any show of regret.

If he was being honest, he was also angry at himself for not being there to protect Eileen when she needed him most.

Damn it, he should have trusted his instincts and kept her close until they knew what the Men of Letters intended to do about her. She deserved better than what she got.

So he did the only reasonable thing he could think to do for her now. In the dark of the night, he had stolen her body from the morgue, intending to give her a proper hunter's funeral. To no suprise of his own, it had been pathetically easy to break in. Besides, what kind of person would ever want to steal a dead body?

There was only one place he could think to hold her funeral. Home. It would have been nice to return her to Ireland, her true home, but it was much too far in distance and they lacked the means to get there. In any case, the bunker was the only place he felt remotely safe from the British Men of Letters at the moment.

She had felt safe there, too. Not for the first time, his hand reached for the pocket of his jacket where he had stowed her last letter, asking them if she could crash at their place until she felt safe from the British Men of Letters. Not a day had gone by that he did not bring it out and read it, her voice clear inside his head.

Sam eased the car to a stop outside the bunker. From the backseat, he lifted Eileen's body into his arms. He couldn't bear to put her inside the trunk, like some forgotten thing. He carried her around the side of the bunker, beneath a tree that was hidden from view of the road. He thought she would have liked it. Earlier in the day, he had been busy building a wooden pyre to hold her body and now he gently laid her across it and tucked the white sheet over her closed eyes. From his pocket he drew out a lighter and, with a shallow breath, he flicked the flame and touched it to the white sheet. He made sure to pour some lighter fluid on the sheet as well, so the flames would not die out early before finishing their work.

Somewhere behind him, Sam's ears detected the soft sound of a footfall on the grass. His muscles tensed and his fingers twitched closer to the pocket where he kept his knife. More than likely it was Dean, but in the slight chance that it wasn't...perhaps they could finish this sooner than expected.

"So that's what you were building out here," Dean called out and Sam released the breath he had been holding. "I thought you finally got sick of living with me and decided to build a treehouse. Go full-on Tarzan."

"Dean," Sam cut him off. Today he wasn't in the mood for Dean's sense of humor, not when he was saying goodbye to a friend. In some sense, he also understood that Dean's tendency to turn everything into a joke or a pop culture reference was his personal defense mechanism when the going got rough. Disarmed of that defense, Dean grew quiet beside Sam, his lips pinched in a disgusted frown, green eyes trained on the flames and the body they consumed.

"Sorry," Dean murmured to his brother, hanging his head. "I know you really liked her. She didn't deserve to go out like this, running scared and mauled by Hellhounds all because some dicks with snobby accents stood by and gave the orders. I swear, Sammy, we'll make them pay for this. Every last one of them."

That cold fury brushed Sam's heart again and he squeezed his eyes shut, using every ounce of his will to keep it at bay a little while longer. When he opened his eyes, he made a motion with his right fist, rotating it across his chest. All the while, he concentrated on keeping Eileen's smile in his mind.

"What was that?" Dean asked, observing Sam's silent gesture.

"I was just saying goodbye." That was only half true. Really, what he meant to say was _sorry._

...


	52. Home Alone

_**A/N: Enough of the sad one-shots for a while. Here's a funny one-shot for you to enjoy. Sam and Cas accidentally figure out what Dean really does when he's home alone...**_

 _ **Home Alone**_

"Let's go out to eat tonight," Sam suggested, poking his head into the empty fridge. Well, not entirely empty. There were three beers left, but little else; certainly no fresh lettuce, tomatoes, carrots. or even chicken to make a decent salad. With a disappointed frown and a grumbling stomach, he closed the fridge and ventured into the library, where he had last seen his brother.

"Dean? Did you hear me? I think it's a good idea if we go out to eat."

"Why?" Dean replied, never glancing up from the laptop on the table. Sam seriously doubted he was doing research, or at least not the kind that was useful in hunting. Across the table hunched Cas, who appeared puzzled as he rotated a colorful Rubik's cube in his hands.

"44, 45, 46..." Cas counted under his breath with every turn of the cube's colorful rows.

"For starters?" Sam said, ignoring the angel's latest mission. "There's next to nothing in the fridge since neither of us went shopping in between hunting." Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered telling Dean it was his turn to do the grocery shopping, but it must have gone in one ear and out the other. "And we've eaten at home this whole week. It would be nice to have someone else worry about making dinner for a change."

"I always worry about making your dinner!" Dean protested, finally snapping his head up. To Sam's ears, he actually sounded offended, as if Sam didn't appreciate him enough for slaving over a hot stove. It was times like these that he wondered whether he was talking to his brother or his mother.

"47, 48, 49..." Cas counted, oblivious to their dilemma.

"And it would be nice if you relaxed once in a while, too," Sam remarked. Dean swept a hand toward the laptop, giving Sam reason to roll his eyes. "You know what I mean. Take it easy for one night. What do you say?"

"Nah." Dean shrugged. Sam was struck silent for a moment.

"Nah?" he parroted.

"Nah. You might feel like going out there and walking among our fellow humans for the sake of food, but I don't. I'll hang here." Just like that, Dean turned his attention back to the laptop, successfully tuning out his brother. Sam stared at him in dismay.

"Okay...so what am I supposed to do? Go out alone?"

"Of course not. Take Cas with you," Dean suggested, waving blindly toward the angel who was still preoccupied with the cube.

"Looks like Cas is busy at the moment," Sam pointed out. All of a sudden, Cas gave the cube one last turn and dropped it on the table next to Dean's laptop.

"I have solved your impossible Cube of Rubik, Dean. It took exactly 52 turns," he announced, looking quite pleased with himself. Dean picked up the cube and rolled it in his palm. Each side was solid in color, as it should be.

"And it only took him an hour," Dean said, setting the cube down. "See that? Now he's got nothing to do tonight."

"On the contrary, I could finish watching _Gilmore Girls_ on Netflix," Cas intervened, leaning over the table. "There's a character named Dean, but strangely enough, he bears a strong resemblance to Sam." The brothers exchanged a perplexed look between them.

"Take the poor guy out to dinner," Dean insisted. "I'll be here doing what I do best."

Cas tilted his head.

"I never gave it much thought before. What exactly do you do, Dean, when Sam is not home with you?"

"Well-" A small smirk played on Dean's lips. Before he could come up with some witty response that would undoubtedly make Cas uncomfortable, Sam clamped a hand down on Cas' shoulder.

"Trust me, you don't want to know. Come on, Cas, let's go get some food." Sam slipped on his jacket and led the way to the door with Cas in tow. "Enjoy your night in, Dean." The door clicked softly behind them, followed by the rumble of the Impala's engine.

"Oh, I will," Dean murmured and closed the laptop.

...

 _Da na na na na na..._

 _Da na na na na na na..._

" _Just take those old records off the shelf,"_ Dean belted out along to Bob Seger's vocals as he slid across the library floor. At the moment, he was only dressed in black socks, plaid boxers, and a white shirt.

He always wanted to try this.

" _I'll sit and listen to them by myself-"_ Using Sam's hairbrush as a microphone, Dean swung his hips like Elvis, strutting forward with as much cool as he could muster.

" _Today's music ain't got the same soul-"_ On a whim, he leaped onto the table, using it as a makeshift runway.

" _I like that old time rock'n..._ oh...son of a bitch."

Dean reached the end of the table and spun around only to come face to face with Sam and Cas. The music was loud enough that he didn't even hear them return from their evening out.

Sam's eyebrows had risen almost to his hairline, his lips puckered in that smug grin that warned he would not forget this moment for a long time to come. Cas' head was sharply tilted to the left, mouth agape as he surveyed Dean up and down.

"Hiya, Sammy. Cas," he greeted, his neck turning a telltale shade of red. He stepped down from the table, making sure to hide Sam's hairbrush behind his back. "I didn't expect you two back so soon. Tell me you brought pie."

"Dean," Cas finally spoke, "why aren't you wearing any pants?" Dean glanced down at his bare knees and realized he didn't have a good explanation for this. At least not one that Cas would understand. However, Sam turned that smug grin on Cas.

"I told you that you didn't want to know."

...

 _ **I don't know about you, but I could picture Dean pulling this off.**_


	53. Not Your Usual Guardian Angel

_**A/N: For those who enjoy a bit of Megstiel, here's a surprise for you! It's a longer one-shot than I usually write, but I hope you enjoy it all the same. Set during Season 9, shortly after the episode "I'm No Angel" where Dean decides to kick Cas out of the bunker.**_

 _ **Not Your Usual Guardian Angel**_

 _This is a stupid idea. Probably one of the stupidest I've ever had._

Purgatory hadn't changed much since he left it almost a year ago. To the average eye, it resembled an ordinary forest, a vast sea of trees as far as the eye could see, but Dean knew for a fact that it was literally endless and that it wasn't just filled with adorable woodland creatures. On the contrary, the darkest creatures in existence lurked there, picking each other off one by one like a never-ending Hunger Games movie.

At least it was daytime. Purgatory was at its most lethal during the nighttime, when anything could be out there stalking you from the shadows. Vampires, shapeshifters, werewolves, Leviathans, you name it.

And demons.

Ironically, Dean had fought his way back into Purgatory to save a demon. He never thought he would even consider such a thing, what with all of Dad's brutal training pounded into his brain from the time he was old enough to talk, forced to repeat several times a day that demons were the enemy and must be vanquished without hesitation. Hell, it was a particularly nasty demon that had murdered his mother in cold blood. Or rather hot blood, burned on the ceiling right above Sammy's crib.

He hated himself for thinking of that lousy joke.

Yet Dean had learned a thing or two since he started out as a hunter. One of the things he learned was that demons were actually not so different from humans, angels, or any other race of creature out there. Plenty of them were dangerous sons of bitches that deserved to be killed seven ways from Sunday, which Dean had no problem with, but time and again there were also some not-so-bad ones, too.

How to find the one he needed, though? She was a needle in a haystack of supernatural creatures that would love to bleed him dry and use his bones as toothpicks.

Dean could only think of one surefire way.

" _Meg_!" he shouted on the top of his lungs. Then he cocked his head, his ears strained to listen. If there were any birds in those trees, the sudden noise might have driven them away, but the complete stillness only added to the eeriness of Purgatory. There was never a rustle of wind or leaves, there was no snapping of twigs underfoot, there was no breath but his own.

He walked a little farther before shouting again.

"Meg! Megara! Meggie May! Hey, _bitch_ , come out, come out, wherever you are!"

"FYI: it'd be easier to stick an apple in your mouth and wear a sign around your neck that says _eat me_ ," Meg's bittersweet voice responded as she emerged from behind a black tree. "If you're looking to get yourself killed, that is."

Dean whipped out the demon-killing knife and held her at bay.

"How do I know you're the real Meg?" She crossed her arms and leaned against the tree, sizing him up.

"Who would want to pretend to be a little demon like me?"

"Answer the question," he growled. His eyes scanned the area, his muscles tense in preparation for a fight. That was what he hated about Purgatory—it was always too quiet. "There are shapeshifters and Levis in here. And I don't mean a sale on skinny jeans. You say you're the real Meg? Prove it."

She pushed away from the tree and he raised the knife higher.

"How about this? I kissed an angel and I liked it. And guess what? He used tongue." Dean blanched and spun away in disgust.

"Come on! TMI!" He cursed under his breath while her amused laughter echoed in his ears. Still, he didn't know many creatures in Purgatory that were fond of angels, certainly not enough to brag about making out with one. "Yeah, alright, it is you."

Only then did he bother to get a good look at her.

Meg had seen much better days. She almost looked the way she had the last time he'd seen her alive—roughed up, unkempt, fighting for her life, except there was twice as much blood this time around. The sticky red substance stained her face, her stringy blonde hair, her clothes, even her fingernails, as if she'd had to gouge out someone's eyes not too long ago.

Far from the confident, classy girl she so often was, she looked rather thin and small in her torn T-shirt and frayed jeans. She was barefoot, her skin caked with mud and hardened by scabs.

"Like what you see?" Meg quipped. Dean's eyes snapped back up to her face and he cringed.

"You're not my type. I don't do demons." Meg's smile was almost predatory. It was making him uncomfortable, along with everything else in that place.

"That's right. It's only your brother and your old boyfriend that do demons. _You_ do angels." Dean shook off her taunts as he kept his eyes trained on the surrounding area. Every passing second was making him more anxious. If Purgatory taught him anything, it was dangerous to remain in one place too long.

"Look out!" Dean shouted as he caught a flicker of movement behind Meg. She spun around, just as a vampire stepped out from behind the tree. Its mouth was filled with jagged rows of teeth as it lunged towards them. Two other vampires appeared behind Dean, cornering them like venemous snakes on rabbits.

"Feeding time," one of the vampires behind Dean hissed, licking its red lips and eyeing Dean like he was a slab of fresh meat. None of the vampires looked at Meg that way, but maybe demon meat was tainted. Nonetheless, they inched closer, until Dean and Meg huddled together back to back.

"Tell me you have a plan," Meg muttered.

"I'm working on it." He surveyed the circle of vampires that were rapidly closing in on them. He searched for a break in the circle, but there was none. From the waistband of his jeans, he whipped out his gun and loaded it.

"I thought you were supposed to be an expert," Meg said, scoffing at the sight of the gun in his hands. "A regular gun won't kill vampires."

"I know that, Einstein. Now _duck_!" She opened her mouth wide to object, but he forced her down by the head and shot a straight bullet into the chest of one of the vampires. The vampire bared its teeth, mocking him for such a foolish, weak endeavor. Then its smile froze in horror as the bullet laced with dead man's blood started to take effect and it collapsed on the ground.

It wasn't dead yet, but it would stay down for a good while.

The other vampires attacked at once.

Dean scrambled away and shot off another bullet into the brain of another vampire. When that one went down, he aimed to bury his knife into its neck, but a pair of hands propelled him back, flinging him headfirst into a tree. He lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, the world spinning in circles.

The last vampire's feet drew closer, coming in for the kill. Beyond it, Dean watched three Megs collapse on the ground. _Oh, hell no,_ he cursed inside his head. Was it exhaustion? Dehydration? Did demons even get exhausted or dehydrated? Either way, she wasn't moving, and she certainly wasn't any use to him dead.

The vampire stopped a foot away from him. Probably savoring its victory before tearing his throat out. The dizziness subsided and he raised his gun, ready to shoot one last bullet into the vampire. Only he saw something he had never seen before: this vampire had black eyes, like a demon.

Dean glanced back and forth between the vampire and Meg's unconscious body.

"Oh, no, she didn't," he murmured, lowering the gun.

"Oh, yes, she did," the vampire purred, running its hands up and down its muscular chest, as though discovering it for the first time. Then it held out its hand. "Give me the knife. I need to get this over with before I really get a taste for blood pudding."

He handed him—her— _it_ the knife and she proceeded to drive the blade into the vampire's neck, hacking it apart. As a demon, it wouldn't kill her, but it would hurt the vampire as soon as she left the body. A tunnel of black smoke spilled out of the vampire's mouth and into Meg's old body. Dean finished the job of cutting off its head while it was paralyzed on the ground.

"Note to self: never possess a vampire again," Meg moaned as she picked herself up from the ground. "They're bigger gluttons than you are!"

"Gee, thanks," Dean replied flatly.

"We make a good team, don't we?"  
"Yeah, let's not stick around for round two. Any minute now, more could show up. Or worse." The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he imagined the worst creatures swooping down on them like dogs on meat—werewolves, shapeshifters, _Leviathans,_ oh, my.

Dean rolled up his sleeve and sliced his arm, the beads of blood trailing like fresh tears across his skin. He hardly flinched from the sting of the blade; he had endured far worse over the years.

"Listen up. I need you to get inside me," he demanded, gesturing his blade to the cut he made.

"That's what she said," Meg snickered, earning a no-nonsense look from Dean. There was a spark of surprise in her eyes. "You're serious. Don't tell me: you came to save little ole me. How generous of you, but unnecessary. I don't need saving."

Sticking her nose in the air, she stalked off in the other direction. Dean ground his teeth together, cursing her with every name in the book. He forgot how annoying she could be. What the hell did Cas even see in her, besides the whole forbidden fruit angel-on-demon thing?

"Who said I'm doing it for you?" he called out to her retreating form. She hadn't gotten far; he noticed now that she had a limp in her left leg. Meg paused and glanced back at him in dawning realization.

"Of course you're not. You don't play nice with demons, right?" she said bitterly. Dean didn't falter. "You're doing it for him? Then why isn't he here? Why should I even trust you?"

"You were the one that went all noble," he reminded her. It still confounded him that Meg had it in her to do such a thing, sacrificing her life so they could escape with the angel tablet. Ever since Ruby, he had a difficult time seeing a shred of good in any demon, but he had to admit Meg was unlike any he ever met before. "Once we get the hell out of here, I'll fill you in. You want out of this hellhole? I'm the best chance you've got."

Dean held out his hand. She hung back, weighing her options. Under his breath, he hummed the _Jeopardy_ theme. She was certainly taking her sweet-ass time in taking him up on his offer. He didn't know if it was for Cas, or for another chance to kill Crowley, or for the simple pleasure of her freedom. Truthfully he didn't care.

All that mattered was that she took his hand.

With a flick of his knife, the blade nicked her forearm. Her blood flowed with that same electric pulse and Meg hissed, recoiling with bared teeth, but Dean's grip locked her in place. For a second, she looked almost betrayed.

"You cut me!" Dean ignored her in favor of reciting a Latin incantation. Their spilled blood quivered and trailed along their wrists until they joined together in one flowing stream. Meg's eyes widened as she began to change form—she went from a girl to a cloud of black fog that seeped into Dean's cut arm. He clenched his teeth against the ache, the veins in his arm throbbing, and that black essence pounding underneath his skin.

"And now I have a demon inside me," he muttered. "The only time I'll ever say that." Fighting the intense pressure in his arm, thanks to his unlikely passenger, he headed onward through Purgatory toward the waterfall. Toward freedom.

….

Once Dean stepped out of Purgatory for the second time, he wasted no time in cutting Meg out of his arm. The black mist filtered from the wound and drifted across the ground before taking the form of Meg again. She brushed away invisible germs from her body, her pink lips curling in disgust.

"Even for a demon, that sucked," she complained, shuddering.

"Couldn't agree with you more," Dean grumbled, slipping the knife back into his pocket. The two demons he had taken down before were still lying lifeless among the heaps of trash, but he did not stop to look them over. Instead he headed for the mouth of the alley. Behind him, he heard Meg make a low, amused noise— _humph._

"Better you than me," she said, nudging the leg of one of the demons.

"Let's go," Dean ordered. After a moment, he heard Meg limping along after him. She didn't like being told what to do—no demon did, given their impulsive, destructive nature—but it wasn't like she had much of a choice.

The Impala was parked down the street from the alley. He had expected there would be demons lurking in the area and so parking it right there would be cocky and a dead-giveaway, even for him. He refused to put Baby in their crosshairs.

Immediately, Meg recognized it with a wicked curve of her lips and she reached for the door.

"Ah, ah, ah!" Dean beat her to the punch, blocking her way. From the trunk, he retrieved a blue tarp.

It was tempting to toss Meg into the trunk, right under the white painted devil's trap, but he knew she wasn't going anywhere until she learned his reason behind rescuing her from Purgatory. Besides, she had actually been more helpful than harmful last time they met. He wasn't about to become cheerleader for her fan club, but as far as demons went, he'd seen far worse.

He laid the blue tarp over the passenger's seat.

"Afraid I'll give you cooties?" Meg teased, scrunching her nose at the blue tarp.

"Hey, I don't want your crap all over my Baby's seats," he retorted, gesturing to her less-than-elegant appearance. "And don't even get me started on your demon-Purgatory-stink. I'd rather take a ride with Pepe le Pew."

Even Dean had taken at least three hot showers before getting behind the wheel again after breaking out of Purgatory.

"You really know how to make a girl feel special." Nonetheless, she hopped into the car while Dean took the wheel. It was better to talk on the road, in case other things were listening out there. It might have been his paranoia at work, but a hunter's paranoia was often the key to survival.

Meg aimed for the radio dial. In an instant, Dean swatted her hand away with the tip of his demon blade. She blew on her fingertips and glared at him.

"Don't. Touch," he growled, threatening her with the knife. When he was certain she wouldn't try that one again, he put the knife away.

"Demanding. I like it," she said, giving him a blood-stained grin that turned his stomach, even worse than the stench. "So, are you ever going to fill me in? Or should I start playing 20 Questions?"

Dean hesitated only for a minute, his green eyes focused on the long stretch of road ahead, but that was because of his diehard instincts telling him that he was an idiot for letting a demon ride shotgun in his car. Then he broke down and told her everything—about Sam's condition, about Zeke, about being forced to choose between his brother and Cas. Afterward, he was gunning the engine harder than he should and he felt like hell.

"You really must love your brother," Meg spoke at last. "Enough to choose him over your poor angel boyfriend. I guess it's _ex_ -angel now." For her credit, Meg almost sounded disappointed. Dean had a feeling she liked Cas more than she would ever let on. That's what he was counting on, anyway.

"Why do you think I found you in the first place? So we could catch up, have a sleepover, braid each other's hair? It was _Sam_ ; I had no choice, but do you really think I'd send Cas out there alone, naïve, and defenseless? He'd be dead by the weekend."

He didn't say it aloud to Meg, but he considered Cas his brother, too, and that meant he was going to look after him in any way he could.

"So, you want _me_ to be his personal guardian angel minus the halo?" He peered over at her while she mulled it over, but demons often had good poker faces, her true thoughts well-hidden.

"Just watch out for him…when I can't," he pleaded. She had done it before, when Cas had accepted the burden of Sam's craziness and had been confined to a mental institution. Meg had signed on as a nurse at that hospital so she could keep a close eye on their angel. Dean had never said thank-you for that.

"You came to the right demon. You worry about your brother. I'll worry about Clarence." Dean rolled his eyes at her little pet name for Cas, but that was also how he knew she was on board with this plan. He pulled the car alongside the curb and braked.

"Awesome. Now get the hell out of my car." Meg narrowed her eyes.

"Now I remember why I never found you attractive, Dean. You're not as charming as you think." He placed a hand over his heart, feigning agony. She stepped out and slammed the door, an instant before he tore away from the curb. He tore away the tarp and tossed it in the back seat.

"I'm so sorry, Baby," he crooned, stroking the clean seat, still warm from Meg's body heat. "You know I hate covering you up, but I couldn't let that nasty demon Meg ruin you. Good girl." It was a smooth, quiet ride the rest of the way home.

…..

By the time he got back to the bunker, the dawn already streaked across the sky, painting it a soft rose and deep purple color. Dean couldn't remember the last time he had watched the sun rise, but all he wanted to do was tumble into bed and sleep for a year. Every part of his body ached, even in places he didn't know he had.

He almost didn't notice Sam sitting in the library, poring over his laptop with a fresh mug of coffee in hand.

"Hey, Dean," Sam called him back. Dean groaned and turned toward the sound of Sam's voice. He stared at his brother through tired, burning eyes. "You look like hell. Where have you been all night?"

"You wouldn't believe how many places were sold out of good beer." It was the first thought that popped into his head, how much he could use a drink. He even pretended to stumble on his feet and slur his words. Sam sat back and folded his arms over his chest.

"Really? You drove all night on a beer run? Where's the beer?"

"I drank it. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with two beautiful semi-naked ladies in Dreamland. Wake me up in four hours." He stumbled into the wall.

"Uh, Dean?"

" _Whaaat_?" he moaned childishly.

"It's morning and we have a potential case." Sam shrugged. Without argument, Dean tossed the keys in front of him.

"I'll sleep in the car."

….

It wasn't easy being human, but that was partly because Castiel had never been human until a week ago. Suddenly, he was no longer the supreme celestial being; he was one of them on earth, forced to conform to their natural ways of living.

While it gave him a whole new appreciation for his father's greatest creation, he was also frustrated as he struggled to adapt. He had to meet the demands of the human body that he never had to endure as an angel.

Eating.

Sleeping.

Urinating. Always urinating.

He had to remember that he was vulnerable to a wide number of threats that he might have once brushed off. So many rules to obey.

Look both ways before you crossed the street.

Don't swallow the toothpaste.

The fact that his wounds were not easily healed by the touch of a finger. Papercuts were the worst, followed by the stub of a toe. Antiseptic fluid burned like the flames of Hell itself.

So many new things he had to learn.

What did Dean once call him? A baby in a trench coat. There might have been some truth to that. Only now he didn't even have his trench coat. Or a home.

What he did have was a job. It was an entirely new experience for him, just like everything else, but it was also the key to living a decent life on earth, apparently. He wouldn't call it a _miserable_ existence, exactly….

"Well, well. How the mighty hath fallen," a familiar voice drifted from somewhere close behind as he was busy restocking the shelves. Within a heartbeat, he recognized it and yet doubted its reality. It couldn't possibly be…but he wouldn't know for sure until he turned around.

So he did.

There she was. Standing before him, in the flesh, clean and confident as ever before. There was no trace of blood or pain. Her hair was not the stringy, matted blonde that he last remembered, but rich, dark spirals. As he stared, her pink lips curved in that old mischievous way, like she held a secret.

"What's the matter, Clarence? Demon got your tongue?" He watched with fascination as the tip of her own tongue flicked across her upper lip. Somewhere in his memory, he still tasted her kiss.

"Meg," he whispered and inhaled deeply. That was another thing he had forgotten to do in the beginning—breathe. She stepped closer and he caught a whiff of her musky perfume.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten me already," she said, tilting her head so her dark crown caught the light. He felt a smile tease his lips.

"I could never forget you," he assured her.

Demon or not, she haunted his dreams. Once he figured out how to sleep, that is. He wondered if this was a dream. Or was his mind playing tricks on him? Some unfortunate humans suffered from hallucinations—was this one?

Meg had died at the hands of Crowley; there was no reason she should be here now unless it was a figment of his imagination.

He turned away and closed his eyes.

"You can't be here." It was highly improbable. He heard the sharp clacking of her heels on the linoleum floor. The hairs on the back of his neck rose from her close proximity.

"Oh, but I am."

She trailed her fingernails down his back and his nerves tingled with what could only be called pleasure. That was something else he had to keep under control. It had never really been an issue when he was an angel of the Lord, since he always had more important matters on his mind. Now it seemed all he thought about was sex, sex, sex. Human minds tended to be dirty sometimes.

He faced her again and dove headfirst into her alluring dark eyes. As an angel, he had been able to see her true face, which was not as repulsive as many other demons he had encountered. Her vessel was also rather beautiful, making that sensation of pleasure escalate.

"Is this a dream?" Her eyebrows rose in mock surprise.

"You dream of me? So it is true. You're human. I'll bet you don't even have an anti-possession tattoo like Thing One and Thing Two."

He felt his muscles tense. He had considered getting another tattoo, alongside the anti-angel one, in case of demons. Meg placed her hand on his chest, his heart racing beneath her palm. It was strange how the smallest, intimate touch could make it pound.

"Relax. There are plenty of other humans for me to borrow besides your meat suit. I don't think either of us is ready for that level of commitment." Her fingers traced the nametag pinned to his vest. "Steve? How original…and boring. I like Castiel better."

It was the first time he ever heard her use his real name. For a while, he doubted if she even knew it, but he felt awkward every time he considered asking her. He liked the way it sounded, coming from her.

"I was using the name Clarence before," he told her. That seemed to take her by surprise and her fingers released the nametag. "I finally understand that reference." She folded her arms under her breasts, lifting them higher.

"Do you? It's about damn time," she teased, clapping her hands together. "It's nice to see you alive, if not well."

"You as well," he agreed. At last, he could not resist taking her in his arms and embracing her. For a moment, she was stunned; no demon had been hugged by an angel before, ex or otherwise. Slowly, her hands came around and rubbed his back.

"Easy, boy," she whispered, slipped out of his grasp. She brushed down her stylish outfit, but he got the feeling she had secretly enjoyed it. After all, she was fighting hard to hide that smile and losing.

"How are you here?" he asked. Meg stuffed her hands into the pockets of her black leather jacket and shrugged.

"Your boyfriend—"

"Dean," he sighed. He could not stop the sense of betrayal he felt when he was reminded of how he had been kicked out of the bunker, tossed back into the wide world to fend for himself. It was irrational to be so jealous, especially when he knew Dean's reason for doing so—for doing anything at all—was Sam, but human emotions were messy. At the very least, it was the reason he did not have a place to call home.

"As I said, your boyfriend," Meg continued, without missing a beat, "rescued me from Purgatory. Looks like I'm _your_ guardian angel now." Some of that betrayal diminished, his heart warming at the thought of Dean taking measures to ensure his safety. "So what say you and me paint the town red tonight? Hit a bar or two, dance the night away, and celebrate my return?"

It was tempting.

"I finish working at six—"

"Steve? What's going on here?" The commanding voice of his boss thundered through the store, interrupting their reunion. She must have noticed them talking for several minutes, which meant he wasn't doing his job. He felt the rush of humiliation and panic, while Meg remained cool and controlled beside him, surveying the woman as a vulture sizes up its prey.

"I…um…." He didn't know how to explain Meg to a fellow human.

Luckily, Meg was quick on her feet. Poising her hand on her hip, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder, she impersonated the sort of chipper teenage girls he had seen come through the store on more than one occasion.

"Yeah, so if you could, _like_ , point me in the direction of the tampons, you'd really save my life! I am such a mess down there this month!" Cas' mouth fell open soundlessly and his brain malfunctioned like that drink machine he had to fix twice this week. Even his boss turned pink and cringed, looking very much like she regretted her interruption. Without a word, he pointed to one of the aisles and Meg kissed his cheek. "Thanks so much! You're an angel!"

"And you're a dem— _ugh_!"

"Oh, clumsy me! Stepping on your foot like that," Meg said, looking quite horrified at her mistake. As he hopped up and down, he sensed she had done it on purpose. He didn't understand why she called him an angel when he was so obviously a human.

She offered a toothy grin to his boss, in case she hadn't gotten the hint. With a firm nod, his boss whirled on her heel and stalked back to her duties. As soon as her back was turned, Meg winked at him and her eyes flew to the clock on the wall.

They had a date at six o'clock.

….

Just as she promised, Meg was there a few minutes before six o'clock. He never knew a demon to stick so well to promises outside of deals, but he suspected it had something to do with having too much time on her hands and no longer fighting for her life in Purgatory.

He couldn't help but smile in relief as he met her outside the store.

She was dressed in the same classy outfit as before, but she was also leaning against a cherry-red Mustang. He wasn't entirely convinced that she had acquired it by legal means.

"Won this shiny new toy in a poker game," she bragged, patting the hood. She chuckled as her dark eyes swept up and down his body. "Clarence, you can't go out dressed like _that_." She motioned to his work uniform. He glanced down at his clothes in confusion; these were the only clothes he had. Meg snapped her fingers. "Lose the vest."

Uncertainly, he shed the blue vest from his shoulders and she tossed it in the back seat of her car. Underneath was a white button-down shirt. Pushing away from the car, she snagged one of the top buttons and slipped it through its hole. The cool air kissed his bare skin as she undid another button and pulled his shirt open. It was more skin than he had ever shown before, but Meg hummed in approval.

"I like you without the tie," she said, her nail teasing his bare skin. Her lips pursed in contemplation as she looked him over again. The last thing she did was run her fingers through his hair, messing it up. He was tempted to fix it back into place, but she swatted his hand away. "Looking good. Hop in, Clarence, we're going partying."

He slipped into the passenger seat right before Meg geared up the engine and sped away from the curb. It was startling how fast the car raced along the road. Their hair whipped in the wind and his back was glued to the seat. He reached down to his waist and fumbled for the seat belt, only to realize there was none to be found.

"Shouldn't we be wearing seat belts?" he asked over the roar of the engine, gripping the armrest of the door for dear life. Meg laughed.

"Live a little." The car vaulted forward.

"That remains to be seen, since only one of us is capable of surviving a car crash." She patted his thigh and suddenly he was stiff in his seat for a different reason.

"Have some faith in your guardian demon," she said and pressed her foot harder on the gas. Cas began to pray, if only to survive until they reached their destination.

The car screeched to a halt and he gripped the seat to keep from flying off of it.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Meg stepped out on two strong legs, but he remained frozen in his seat, staring straight ahead through the windshield, chest heaving. When Meg opened his door, he almost fell out onto the pavement. She used the opportunity to loop her arm through his and half-drag him along.

They were standing in front of a dance club. Appropriately enough for Meg's taste, the flashing neon sign proclaimed it as Hell Night _._ The beats of the music could be heard outside, pulsing like a heartbeat. There was already a line snaking from the front entrance, but Meg strode straight toward the guard next to the front door.

"Hey!"

"You can't do that!"

"Quit cutting in line!"

Several people protested at once, but Meg ignored them all. Cas felt sympathetic for those humans when he remembered the way Crowley preferred to run Hell, where the souls of the damned endured the torment of waiting in an endless line, only to move to the end again and start all over.

Meg whipped her head around to glare at the people that waited in line. Though he could not see her face, he was sure Meg flashed her demon-black eyes, judging from the crowd's alarmed expressions. Demons were cocky that way.

"A word of advice?" Cas suggested as Meg led him further. "While I am vulnerable, you should be more discrete in proving yourself to be a demon. There are hunters, demons, and angels sharing this earth now—and very few of them act in our favor."

Meg rolled her eyes.

"I can handle myself," she said, raising her chin. "I survived until Crowley, didn't I? Besides, most of these creatures here are low-class demons. I doubt any of your old feather-buddies would look for trouble here."

"I wouldn't be so sure," he murmured. One angel could wipe out several demons at once without breaking a sweat. Now every angel in Heaven's garrison was trapped on earth, fighting for a way back home. There was no telling what lengths they would go to in order to make that happen.

The guard glanced up as they approached and flinched.

"What do you know? If it isn't Crowley's favorite chew toy," the man—or demon—remarked, smoothing a meaty hand over his jaw.

He regarded Cas with mild suspicion and Cas returned his best stare. It made him feel uneasy, not to be able to tell the difference between human and demon anymore. How did Sam and Dean ever master it? The demon must have decided that Cas was a harmless human, since he dismissed him without a thought, returning his full attention to Meg.

"Last I heard, he fed you to his pet hellhounds," the demon added with a snicker.

"You're not going to tell on me, are you, Mammon?" she said in her sweetest voice. Cas grew nervous, but Meg tightened her grip on his arm.

"Crowley's not the one in charge, anymore. Or at least he won't be once Abaddon takes the throne. Why should I do anything to get on his good side?"

"Smart boy," she said, tucking a fifty in the demon's shirt pocket. He cocked his head to the entrance, inviting them through.

"It pays to have connections," she whispered as they entered the club.

The music got louder with each step forward, until Cas could feel it in his blood. The club was submerged in misty shadows and flickering strobes of red light. He could hardly see Meg beside him until his eyes adjusted, but he could feel her guiding touch on his hand.

Together they navigated through the sea of swaying bodies, sticking to the fringe of the dance floor. On the other side of the club was the bar. The last time Cas drank anything alcoholic was when he was an angel. It was an appropriate social custom for this kind of setting, and so he set his sights on the shelves crammed with bottles of alcohol behind the bartender.

"What would you like?" Cas asked Meg, his lips close to her ear so she could hear him over the music. He intended to play the part of a gentleman and buy her a drink with the few spare dollars he had in his pocket. Meg grinned and cupped her hand around his ear to answer.

"Sex on the beach." He reared his head back, his mouth gaping in astonishment. Had he somehow misheard her? Then again, there was that bold look she was giving him, waiting to gauge his reaction. "It's a _drink_. Unless you have something else in mind?"

Cas forgot how to breathe again.

"Sex-on-the-beach-and-a-light-beer. Please," he hastily ordered. The bartender gave him an odd look, like he was a foolish teenage kid looking to try a drink, but hurried off to fulfill their request. Meg scowled.

"You can do better than that," she said, challenging him with a drum of her nails on the bar. He knew it was not smart to give in to her peer pressure—after all, he did have work in the morning—but some part of him desired to impress her. He signaled the bartender again.

"On second thought…make that last one the strongest drink you have," he heard himself saying. Meg slid her body closer to his, her hand working its way up his arm. She tilted her face up, so their lips almost met.

"Now we're having fun," she sang. Their drinks came to a smooth stop in front of them. While Meg sipped hers, twirling the pink umbrella between her fingers, Cas tossed his back. The alcohol scorched his throat and he sputtered. Meg nudged his leg with the toe of her boot. "Careful. A human's tolerance for alcohol isn't as high as an angel's."

She was right. Halfway through the drink, his mind buzzed with pleasant numbness, the room swam before his eyes, and he really, _really_ liked Meg.

"You're watching me. And smiling," she noted, taking another long sip of her drink.

"I like you. I keep thinking about sex on the beach. And I don't know why I'm telling you these things." He had the impulse to laugh at his own foolishness, but it was Meg's laughter that rang in his ears.

"That would be the alcohol, darling." She shook her glass, which was almost empty. "It's a magnificent magical brew that forces everyone to speak and behave truthfully. And makes us do stupid things. Everything you're saying is duly noted, by the way."

He enjoyed the way her pink lips moved when she spoke, and he noticed how her tongue tasted them after each sip. One song ended and another one began. This one he recognized as Bad Company's "Feel Like Making Love", thanks to Dean's taste in music.

Abruptly, she jumped up from her chair and took him by the hand.

"Let's dance!"

To his alarm, she led him to the dance floor, to the swarm of bodies. She guided him through the middle, the bodies parting around them on either side like the sea parting for Moses when he led his people out of Egypt. In the very center, they stopped, their own bodies pressed together as they found their place in the heart of the crowd.

He glanced down at their feet and wondered how he was supposed to command them to move in time with her steps. As a human, he had grown rather clumsy, like he did not quite belong in his skin.

"I have never danced before," he admitted. Meg was not about to let him off the hook, winding her arms around his neck and bringing him down to her.

"No better time to learn."

"I sincerely doubt I would be an impressive dancer," he insisted. Even now he kept staring down at his feet, to make sure he didn't step on hers accidentally. She tipped his chin back up.

"You've never danced with _me_ before."

"Meg—"

" _Castiel_ ," she retorted in a swift, demanding tone. That gave him pause. Once more, he was stunned by the sound of his celestial name on a demon's lips. He felt her breath on the lobe of his ear. "I always get what I want, one way or another. Right now, I want a dance from you. Or do I have to pay up front?" She rubbed his shoulders, easing the tension from his muscles. "Relax, _angel_ , and trust your instincts."

Meg's body pressed flush against his while his hands fell on the curves of her hips, urging her closer. Enticingly, she hooked an arm around his neck and turned, her back sliding along his chest. That awful twinge of pleasure pulsed in every cell of his body, and he tilted his head back to stare up at the shadowy ceiling.

Meg was a _demon_ ; he was once an _angel_. He shouldn't feel this way—

-and why not? He was an angel no longer.

 _Screw it._

Something conquered his instincts then, driving out all reason and logic that might have once stopped him before they went too far. As soon as Meg straightened up, he spun her around to face him again. His arm wound its way around her waist and he held her close, drowning headfirst in two seductively dark orbs. They began to move together, perfectly matching the rhythm, until he could not remember how they were supposed to part, dancing like they had danced this way all their lives. It felt _good_ and that pleasure was enough to convince him never to stop.

Meg grinned.

"That's more like it."

….

After what felt like a millennium, they finally took a break from dancing. By then, their cheeks were flushed, both from the exertion and the pleasure. Cas was reminded of the sensation of soaring through Heaven.

The crowd was still going strong even though it had to be the middle of the night, but they were able to claim a couple of stools in a corner of the bar. They ordered a few more drinks and floated along on their good vibrations.

He hadn't felt this good in…well, just now he couldn't remember. In the dim depths of that club, with the music pounding in his ears and the buzz of alcohol numbing his brain, there was nothing else in the world worth his concern. There was only _her_ , and he clung to her with every fiber of his being, as if she was the only thing saving him from drowning in this ocean of ecstasy.

"I haven't had this much fun with a human since the year I attended Mardi Gras," Meg exclaimed, poking his arm. He had never heard of this Mardi Gras before, but he admired the fact that she was having fun. With him.

"You don't mind it? That I'm a human?" he asked, staring at her shyly from beneath his lashes.

It was a question he had been building the courage to ask all night. As an angel, he had been forbidden to her, which had provided temptation and appeal to a demon like Meg. As a weak, ordinary human, he couldn't understand what she wanted with him. It wasn't because Dean had asked her to protect him; demons didn't like taking orders.

Meg gave him a look that suggested it should be obvious.

"Babe, I was there when you were cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. I think I can handle you being human," she said and toasted it with a long swig of her drink. "Besides, now you and I can really enjoy that pizza."

The promise of pizza was still fresh in his mind. He had never tried pizza before, because he was afraid doing so would remind him too much of Meg after her death.

"Do you remember what it was like? Being human?" he inquired. Most demons started that way—simple humans that had sold their souls and become corrupted in the Pit, until they could no longer recall any semblance of morality or humanity or love. Other demons still grasped a single thread of their previous existence. He wondered which kind Meg would be.

Meg drummed her fingers on the rim of her glass, her eyes distant.

"Bits and pieces," she admitted, with a loose shrug. "It's more like a pleasant dream. The more time that passes, the more I forget what it was all about. No sense missing what you don't remember."

"I remember everything." His memory as an angel was a long one, spanning millennium after millennium. It frustrated him that certain memories were not so easily accessible now that he was human. And drunk.

"Even me?" she asked, sounding quite doubtful.

"Even you." She cast her eyes down, but he could tell she was flattered by the pink color rising in her cheeks. Or was that the rush of the alcohol?

"Tell me: what would the other angels think if they knew you had the hots for a demon like me?"

"They would…." He put his hands to his temples and then away, making the gesture for "mind blown" while puffing air from his mouth. He had seen Dean do that once. It was rare to hear of an angel mating with a demon, probably because those angels were never heard from again in Heaven. From the time he was created, he was told that demons were the enemy. Lately, those lines of right and wrong were blurred. "Anyway, I haven't exactly been Heaven's favorite angel in a long time."

"You'll always be my favorite angel," she said, dipping her head onto his shoulder. "And that's the drink talking." She giggled. He had never heard her do that before, but he liked it.

"I thought you didn't like poetry," he teased. They ordered another round of drinks while Meg gave him an impressed look.

"You remember that, huh? I wasn't aware I made such an impression on you."

"I told you that I remember everything. Even from my time spent being less than sane." Some part of him meant what he said back then, even if it didn't come out the right way.

"Yeah, well, I did what demons do best. I lied. A little. Your poetry….doesn't suck."

"Duly noted."

"Don't think this means I want you serenading me under my window, Romeo." She pointed a finger at his chest, prodding it with each word. It was a lovely thought, except Cas was never fond of singing. He still shuddered at the memory of being a young angel and forced to participate in Heaven's choir.

Meg got that distant look again. She turned her face away, so he could only see a sliver of her reddened cheek behind her curtain of dark hair.

"You can see my true face, right?" He brushed back her hair. The gentle touch startled her into meeting his eyes once more.

"As an angel, I could." Meg made a low moan in her throat.

"So how could you bring yourself to kiss such a disgusting creature?" Disgusting wasn't the word he would have used. Dark. Dangerous. Not necessarily disgusting. Even in darkness, there was sometimes beauty to be found.

"You kissed me first," he reminded her. It was one of those good memories he replayed from time to time. "I was returning the favor."

"And you liked it," she coaxed him.

"And I liked it." How could he not, when it was his first real kiss? "You were not like other demons I've met. You were…fun." She sat back in her chair. Every inch of distance between them felt like a mile to conquer.

"What do you think of me now? Boring?" She averted her eyes to the last few drops of alcohol glimmering at the bottom of her glass, but he could only memorize her features, like she would disappear forever if he blinked. Maybe she would; he still hadn't decided that this wasn't a dream.

"The same way I've always seen you. Dangerous. Confident. Beautiful."

"There's that poetry again." He chuckled, unable to stop the euphoric feeling that buzzed through him. He had no sense of time. It felt like this night could carry on forever.

"Well, well," a cold voice slithered past his ear, grating on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Meg's shoulders tensed, all traces of pleasure in her expression lost. "If it isn't our little Meg come back from the dead."

Cas barely saw the flicker of sleek black eyes through the shadows. The demon slapped Meg on the back, as though they were old friends. Even when she forced one of her sly smiles, Cas knew her too well now not to recognize the irritation bubbling up underneath it, the corners of her lips pinched and her eyes slightly narrowed in warning.

"Fancy meeting you here," she replied coolly. There were two demons, and they both fell into an intense staring contest with Meg, all three waiting for someone to make the first move. "Is this happy coincidence or are you two stalking me?"

"Neither," the other demon, dressed as a biker girl with a black Mohawk snapped. "Guess you didn't pay off the bouncer as well as you hoped."

"Wait until the boss sees the fish we've caught," the first demon gloated, a murderous grin spreading over his face. All of a sudden, Cas wished he had the celestial power—or even the weapons—to handle the demons. The hairs on the nape of his neck rose as he sensed a fight about to break out.

And yet Meg remained eternally calm, fingering the stem of her glass.

"One question," she said, her gaze flickering between the two demons. "Your boss…is it Abaddon or Crowley?"

"Why not both?" the Mohawk purred.

"Abaddon has the best chance of claiming the throne in Hell, but the election isn't over yet. Crowley rose to power once and he can do it again. If that happens, best to be on his good side, right?"

"So you're selling to the highest bidder, hm?" Meg hummed. "Thing is: what would Abaddon want with little old me? Crowley would jump at the chance to have my head on a silver platter, wouldn't he? In fact…I'm counting on it."

Without further ado, Meg tossed the rest of her alcohol in the first demon's eyes. For a moment he was stunned, hissing from the sting, and Meg leaped for the girl with the Mohawk. She struck out at the demon with her fist, but the girl ducked and sank her elbow into Meg's stomach. The air sailed out of Meg's lungs, but she had enough sense to wrestle for a handful of the girl's black shirt and toss her into the bar, knocking her cheek on her chair. A few people lingering near the bar sprang back, but the bartender leaned forward to observe the fight with relish. It might have been a trick of the light, but Cas could swear the bartender's eyes had been black. How many demons surrounded them in this place?

As Meg reached down for the demon at her feet, the first one recovered and made a beeline for Meg, hands outstretched for her throat. It was pure instinct on Cas' part to jump up from his seat and grab ahold of the demon's wrist to keep him away from Meg. The demon whirled and drove his fist into Cas' nose, knocking him down like a sack of flour. There was sudden pressure on his chest that kept him from getting to his feet again: the demon's foot.

And past him, Cas watched helplessly as the girl with the Mohawk got the upper hand over Meg, kicking her legs out from under her and slamming her head into the multicolor floor. _No…not again..._

"Don't worry—your time will come, angel. Or should I say… _human_?" The demon sniffed the air, as if he could somehow catch Cas' new scent. A malicious intelligence burned in his black eyes. "Here's an idea: ever possessed an angel-turned-human before?"

"Sounds like fun," the girl with the Mohawk sang. She released Meg, bleeding from a gash on her forehead, and started toward Cas. Only then did he realize true fear, his heart quickening its pulse inside his chest. Not fear of the demons, not even fear of them taking over his body like the Leviathans had done. It was fear for what the demons would make him do to Meg once they were…inside him.

He scrambled for something, anything, but the demon's foot held him in place. The girl wandered closer, her black eyes dancing with sinister intent.

"Hey! Get your own boyfriend!" Meg's voice cut through the air. All Cas could think was: _boyfriend?_

Grabbing the demon by the hair, she wrenched her head back and shoved a handful of salt down her throat, making her scream. The first demon lifted his boot away from Cas' chest and snarled at Meg.

"Don't tell me you have the hots for one of _them_?" He jerked his head back to Cas, who struggled to sit up. Meg shrugged.

"The heart wants what it wants," she said, tossing the girl aside to moan and writhe on the ground. "And right now, I want Crowley."

"Why not come quietly, then?"

"Not that kind of girl." Meg jumped on him and knocked him to the ground.

Cas watched them tumble across the ground, feeling more and more useless without his "angel mojo," as Dean would call it. How was he supposed to protect Meg if he couldn't even protect himself? What would Sam and Dean do? They were the strongest, smartest humans Cas ever knew.

Then it hit him.

" _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus..."_

The demon snapped his head up, zeroing in on Cas as his lips mouthed the words. Meg noticed it too and the color drained from her cheeks. Only then did he realize his mistake—that the exorcism spell would send her to Hell, too.

He stopped midsentence.

The two demons must have been scared, for they smoked out before he could finish the chant anyway. All that was left in their wake were the two human vessels they had used. Examining them, Cas was relieved to find that both humans were merely unconscious and suffered no fatal wounds during the time of their borrowing.

"Are you alright?" he asked Meg, brushing his fingers across the swollen red patch on her forehead. The wound wasn't deep, though she winced from the soreness. If he had any of his old power, he would have healed it.

"I've seen worse," she assured him. Strangely, she didn't pull away from his touch.

"You planned for this, didn't you?" he prompted her. Meg's eyes slid away from his face.

"Figured I'd hit two birds with one stone. I was going to use a demon to find Crowley."

"For revenge." It wasn't a question and Meg didn't answer. Perhaps it was his human side, but he understood her motives. "In time. My concern was for you." Meg rolled her eyes.

"You didn't need to be worried. I'm a big girl—I can take care of myself."

"Nevertheless, I am. As the humans like to say…sue me." The beginning of a smile graced her lips.

"Thanks." She took his hand away from her forehead, though she held it for an instant longer than necessary before dropping it. "So what do you say to another round of drinks? This one's on me."

So they shared another drink. And another. And another after that. With every drink, the world swam away from his grasp, all except for Meg who drifted closer than ever.

"Come home with me," she demanded, grabbing ahold of his wrist. It might have also been because she had slipped off her stool and stumbled on her feet, her legs losing the ability to walk thanks to one too many drinks.

His lips parted—he had no idea how to answer her invitation. He didn't want to turn her down. On the contrary, he wanted nothing more than to join her and prolong the inevitable of waking up from this dream.

"Why?" he asked. She rested her hands on his shoulders and steadied her feet, looking him more or less in the eye.

"Because I'm drunk. Because I need to protect you and the only way to do that is to sew you to my hip."

"That sounds unpleasant," he replied, his gaze dropping to the curve of her hip. She swatted the back of his head rather playfully. "Is that the only reason?"

"Well, we still haven't ordered that pizza or moved the furniture. Why pretend that you'll turn me down? Do you to come home with me or not?"

"I do." He let her take his hand and lead him away through the crowd. Before they got to the door, his hand fumbled inside her pocket for the keys. She scowled and dove for them, her body swaying against his, but he held them out of reach, being much taller than her petite frame. "It would be safer if I drive."

"So now _you're_ protecting _me_? Do you even know how to drive?" Come to think of it, no one taught him how to drive one of those confining death-traps yet. In his drunken bliss, he was far more confident than he should have been.

"How hard could it be?"

…..

The first blinding streaks of sunlight stirred him from sleep. With it came a dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes, the result of one too many alcoholic beverages. The roof of his mouth felt like sandpaper. At first, he couldn't remember where he was or what happened the night before, but as the sensation of sleep faded, it came back to him in pieces.

It was a cozy one-bedroom apartment that definitely looked lived-in, thanks to their midnight activities. There was a pizza box on the coffee table, the lid propped open to reveal half of a now-cold pizza. He remembered the taste of it—greasy and heavenly at the same time. He regretted not trying it earlier, and even now the sight of it made him crave more.

No keys on the coffee table or anywhere else he could see. A dim memory of stumbling the rest of the way home, since they crashed the car into a fire hydrant not too far from the club.

On the floor was a trail of discarded clothes leading to the bed. That was when they had moved on from the pizza and decided to start moving the furniture instead. Flashes of intimacy played behind his sore eyelids. That, too, had been an exciting and new experience. Dancing with her. Dancing within her.

In his arms was Meg, resting her cheek over his heart, her fingers teasing his nerves with small touches here and there, her dark hair spilling across the rumpled bedsheets. Her eyes were closed, but the corners of her lips lifted when she sensed him staring.

"It's about time you woke up, Sleeping Beauty," she said, propping her chin atop his chest to gaze up at him with cloudy eyes. He wondered if that was simply from the hangover or from lingering desire. He felt himself smile in relief and smoothed back her hair from her cheek.

"Do demons ever sleep?" he asked. Her fingers danced their way over his chest, making his skin tingle in response.

"They're a lot like angels or the soulless. So, no." That's what he thought. Only humans needed to recharge their bodies through slumber while creatures like angels and demons did not tire easily. All at once, he understood Dean's need for four hours of sleep minimum.

"What were you doing all night to keep busy?" he wondered aloud.

"Mostly? Watching you sleep."

"My instincts as a human are telling me that I should be disturbed by that," he replied, raising his eyebrows. Every now and then, he would wait for Dean to wake up from sleep, standing by his bed, only for Dean to ridicule him for it. Now he started to understand why it bothered Dean so much.

Meg shifted beneath the covers propping herself upon her elbow instead. It brought her face closer to his, the faint scent of pizza on her breath.

"You talk in your sleep, you know," she told him and smiled in that secretive way, like she knew something he didn't. His heart raced. He had no memory of that.

"What was I saying?"

"At first, you were calling my name, which was nice. Then you changed your tune with something that sounded like this: _no, no, Gabriel, please, not the hose again._ " He froze beneath her fingers, his blue eyes wide with horror. "Care to explain that?"

"Now that I'm human, I've had that dream more than once. And my brother Gabriel had a strange sense of humor." That was putting it mildly, what with his performance in his own pornographic movies and dropping the Winchesters into an alternate universe built around television.

"Yeah, there was something about lotion, too," Meg added, suppressing a chuckle. "Sounds like my kind of fun." Cas wondered what Gabriel would have thought of his attraction to Meg. Gabriel had never been the perfect angel, having run away from Heaven, but would he have approved of such an affair? Or would he be fascinated by his little brother's show of rebellion?

Cas wished his brother was there to tell him so. Gabriel had been one of the only angels in Heaven that he truly bonded with and admired.

His mind must have been miles away, because he jumped when Meg snapped her fingers in front of his face. While she studied him, trying to figure him out, he let those thoughts slip away into the back of his mind. The past was past; there was no use neglecting the present.

"This wasn't a dream, after all," he sighed happily. He had been afraid to wake up and find her gone. Worse, to realize she had never been there at all. The headache begged to differ.

"Sorry to disappoint," she answered.

"Not at all." Cupping her face, he urged her down and kissed her deeply. He was amazed and glad to feel her return the kiss, leaving both of them breathless by the time it broke. This was a good kind of forgetting to breathe.

As Meg laid her head back onto his chest, he glanced around for the clock on the nightstand. It was eleven in the morning. With a twinge of guilt, he realized that he was late for work. On the heels of that thought, he decided that he didn't care as much as he should for neglecting his duties. There was nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.

"You know what we should do? Take a nice picture of us together and send it to your old boyfriend as thanks," Meg suggested, a devious smirk on her lips. It was a reasonable idea to Cas. After all, his happiness was partially devoted to Dean for rescuing Meg from Purgatory.

He reached for the phone.

…

Dean had just tumbled into bed for a catnap after wrapping up his last case with Sam. They had been out all night, he was hungry, his clothes were soaked with blood not his own, and Baby was low on gas again.

Even worse, his catnap was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone.

"Aaarrghh," he growled into his pillow and thrashing his legs on the bed. It wasn't fair. Sometimes he hated being Dean Winchester, the supernatural hunter. Sometimes he just wanted to be Dean Winchester, the boy that spends his days sleeping in, listening to good music, and eating pie. Was that too much to ask?

Digging out his phone from his pocket, some of his irritation subsided when he saw that it was a message from Cas.

Then he opened his phone and feasted his eyes on more Cas than he ever wanted to see. Meg was there, too. Under the picture was the message _thank you,_ but he barely read it before tossing the phone away.

"Oh, come on! _TMI_!"

….


	54. Baby, It's Cold Outside

_A/N: Since it's the holiday season, I decided to write a funny little one-shot for Supernatural set around Christmastime. I hope everyone likes it and also enjoys the holidays this year!_

 _Baby, It's Cold Outside_

 _I really can't stay...but baby it's-_

 _"_ Baby, it's co-o-old outside," Dean howled against the radio. The empty road ahead was sprinkled over with a fresh coating of snow and the wipers cleared the white dust from the windshield, the rhythmic beating almost keeping time with the song. It was a long journey home yet, since they just finished a case in Colorado involving a particularly nasty Wendigo, but Dean's spirits were surprisingly cheerful as he blasted Christmas tunes nonstop.

Sam winced and opened his eyes, foolishly thinking he could get some sleep on the long road classic Christmas song crackled with static every few seconds, but still it sounded better than Dean's off-key singing. All the while, Dean caressed the steering wheel like it was his sweetheart instead of his car.

"Dean? You're doing it again," Sam warned, the slightest amusement creeping into his voice.

"Doing what?" Dean barked, his hand pausing on the wheel. Sam gave him a bewildered look, the same kind of look he might wear if he caught his brother walking around the bunker naked. Again.

"Singing to your car like that. It's weird." Dean rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath that Sam didn't quite catch.

"We see weird stuff on a daily basis and _this_ is what bothers you?" Sam's stare did not waver. "What do you got against a man loving his car?" Dean chose that moment to lean over and pat the dashboard, as if Baby were a living female having her feelings hurt. "It's okay, Baby. He doesn't understand our special relationship."

"Or ours," the angel Castiel added from the backseat. He had been his traditional stony silent self for most of the ride and Sam almost forgot he was even there. While it was sometimes fun to taunt Dean about his "profound bond" with Cas, he decided to focus on the issue with his car first.

"Yeah, I think you passed that line a few miles back," Sam teased his brother. "For one thing, I don't think normal men buy Christmas presents for their cars, unwrap them in knee-deep snow, and then proceed to honk the horn for ten minutes to pretend it's the _car_ that's excited." Sam only wished he was kidding about that. It was only funny the first time—now it was a sad, strange tradition to behold on Christmas Day.

"Hey! Baby loves her new air freshener!" Dean flicked the bacon-shaped air-freshener that dangled from the mirror. To Dean, it was a must-have, but Sam didn't think it smelled anything close to bacon. Either his nose had been permanently damaged by the odd stench on the trip home or it wasn't a long-lasting air freshener, for he could hardly smell anything at all now. "Where's your holiday spirit, Sammy?"

"I think the pagan gods killed it."

Dean snorted. In that moment, both brothers recalled the Christmas before Dean went to Hell, when they had to take down a couple of Stepford-like pagan gods, followed by a pathetic Christmas celebration in their motel room, featuring spiked egg nog and a tiny tree decorated with air-fresheners instead of shiny ornaments. The hunting life did not offer much comfort or cheer even when it came to Christmas, so it was a holiday they spent in the simplest of ways. A couple of burgers at home, exchanging gifts that were purchased from the gas station down the street and hastily wrapped in newspaper. Mostly, they were just lucky to see another Christmas before dying spontaneously for the umpteenth time.

"What about you, Cas?" Dean's voice jerked Sam out of his thoughts about their blue Christmases. "What do you say?"

In the backseat, Castiel hunched near the window, electric blue eyes gazing through the frosted glass without truly seeing anything beyond it. Emerging from his thoughts again, the angel turned his grim stare on Dean, face dark with mild annoyance, and sighed, as if this wasn't the first time Dean made such a request.

"Baby, it's cold outside," Castiel sang, his voice a low drone lacking any sort of enthusiasm in the way of Christmas spirit. Sam couldn't help but snicker. The opportunity was too good to pass up this time.

"You know, Dean...something tells me that Cas isn't singing to your _car_." A suggestive grin slid across his face and he secretly enjoyed the sight of Dean's flashing irritation. His meaning was not even lost on Cas, whose shoulders tightened and lips pressed together to prevent another note from slipping past. His usual pale skin now flushed pink with his embarrassment.

"Sam, I...um...Dean, I wasn't..." Cas choked out. Sam bit down on his lip, losing the battle against the laughter rising in his throat. Dean chose to ignore both of them, instead cranking the music even higher as a new Christmas tune filtered through the static.

 _Grandma...run over...reindeer..._

"Walking home from our house Christmas Eve," Dean belted out, his mood soaring once more. Sam groaned, detesting the silly song. "Sam _loves_ this one. Don't you, Sammy?"

Sam shot out a hand to turn the knob on the radio, but Dean slapped it away.

"What's the rule?" Dean chided, shielding the knob with his hand.

"Dean, it's the stupidest Christmas song I ever heard-"

"What's the rule?" Sam only hesitated another moment, debating whether to carry on the argument. He had been down this road countless times with his brother—and Dean somehow always won.

"Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole," he recited.

"And don't you forget it, little brother." Dean finally released the knob, confident that Sam wouldn't touch it.

"I wonder how many times such a tragedy has occurred," Castiel murmured behind Sam's seat. In light of the brothers' questioning glances, he elaborated. "Grandmothers unexpectedly run down by reindeer on Christmas Eve. Enough to make a song out of it, though I've never encountered anyone in Heaven who died that way." Sam opened his mouth to explain the joke, but figured it would be like teaching Latin to a fish, and thus closed his mouth again. Dean, on the other hand, grinned like he had a joke of his own to share.

"Well, Sam...I think we've found our next case."


	55. Wind Beneath My Wings

Wind Beneath My Wings

Flying.

There was nothing quite like it in the world. Not the kind of "flying" that humans settled for—the kind Dean was terrified of. Trapped in a piece of manmade machinery with dozens of fellow humans, waiting to get from Point A to Point B and praying that machine wouldn't fall out of the sky. No, he was talking about _real_ flying, meant only for winged creatures and which humans could only ever taste in their dreams.

Unfolding his massive black wings, stretching them out to full span. Wind whipping through his hair, as luxuriously dark as his wings, his silky feathers rustling with the most pleasurable thrill. Black feathers drifting behind him like leaves in autumn as he soared, swerved, dipped, and dived.

Oh, how he missed this—

" _Cas_!" Dean's rough voice shattered his moment of bliss. Dean sounded less than thrilled. "Get off my car!"

There he was, in broad daylight, standing on the roof of the Impala, arms outstretched like Rose in _Titanic_ as he embraced the wind. Thankfully, Dean had been taking a slow afternoon cruise down the road, with the intention of picking up lunch for him and Sam, and so had not been moving fast enough to make Cas tumble. Even if he had raced down the street like he was one of the drivers in _Fast and the Furious,_ he wouldn't have been surprised if Cas managed to stay rooted to the roof of the car instead of toppling over. Angels did not quite obey the same laws of nature as humans, after all.

Dean only noticed Cas when he pulled into the parking lot of a little blink-and-miss-it food place called Burger Heaven, advertised with a fading yellow sign that depicted a hamburger with wings. The young couple in the next car over gave him astonished looks, mouths hanging open to reveal mush that might have once been hamburger. Then they started to laugh and point to something on the roof of his car. It was only fortunate that humans could not usually perceive an angel's wings, or else they would earn far more attention than two gawking teenagers. Instead of breaking the world again, they would break the Internet.

Dean offered the young couple an embarrassed smile and climbed out of his car.

"Cas, when I asked if you wanted to come for the ride, this isn't what I meant," he scolded.

"My apologies, Dean," Cas murmured, sliding down from the roof of the car. Turning his blue eyes downward, he looked more like a child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar than a man who had just pulled a dangerous stunt. And yet, for that childlike impression, Dean found it hard to stay mad at him.

"Yeah, well...this is the third time you've done this." Cas' head sunk lower, unable to meet Dean's curious gaze. He was waiting for an explanation, but Cas was afraid it was one he could not easily give.

"I miss it sometimes." Dean cocked his head, not quite following.

"Miss what?" Finally Cas lifted his head, his blue eyes shining with what Dean could only call eternal longing.

" _Flying_."


	56. Into the Water

_A/N: This one-shot takes place during the beginning of season 7, when the Leviathan destroy Cas' body in the water. I discovered a good list of word prompts recently on tumblr, which gave me new inspiration to start writing again. Here's to hoping you continue to enjoy these one-shots during the hiatus._

 _Into the Water_

Castiel was about to explode. Literally.

He supposed it was a grave mistake on his part to open the doorway to Purgatory and swallow all those souls, even if it was for the sake of stopping the inevitable war with Raphael before it even really started. No matter how hard he tried to do the right thing, he always seemed to make it worse somehow.

Now thousands of deadly Leviathan battled for control inside him, clawing their way to the surface and burying him ever deeper in their oozing darkness, the delicate seams of his earthly vessel doomed to burst. Sticky black residue dribbled over his lips and seeped into his eyes, burning and bitter, as if he had sucked on an old penny. The blood of the Leviathan. Human vessels were only fit to contain one entity and only when the right angel came along to ask their permission; they were never meant to contain the Leviathan.

Castiel's feet carried him closer to the edge of a reservoir not far from where he opened the door to Purgatory. His movements were sluggish and clumsy at best, feet shuffling across the uneven path, the stumbling gait of a zombie rather than a graceful angel. All of his senses were torn between too many commands inside his head, never allowing him more than a few precious seconds of control.

He wasn't even entirely sure he was the one in control of his feet, leading him toward that shining gray pool of water. Perhaps it was the Leviathan, with the intention of diffusing through that water upon explosion and thus inhabiting as much of this earth as they could. Or maybe, as Castiel dared to hope, it was the last glimmering speck of his own free will that dragged his feet to that shore and beyond. The last thing he wanted was for his brothers—Sam and Dean, of course—to witness the moment of his gruesome demise. If he was meant to die here, that was not how he wished for them to remember him after the fact.

Especially Dean.

Dean, who was no stranger to the bottle already.

Into the water he sank, the cold rising up to his knees, to his waist, to his chest, until finally his entire being was submerged. He did not kick or paddle or fight, merely letting his body float down into those dark depths. As soon as his head sank under the water, his vessel exploded, as if the Leviathan refused to be restrained any longer. His death only took a fraction of a second, but in that second, Castiel's human shape stretched, shredded, and drifted away.

His last thought was not one of regret or sadness or pain; it was one of sweet relief. _I am free._

Blackness—it swallowed him completely as the Leviathan made their way into the world.

Light—it wrapped around him like a warm blanket, chasing away the chill of death. Gradually, feeling returned to his body— _what body?—_ accompanied by the poking sensation of pins and needles. His heart hammered in his chest, as if it as trying to escape. _Escape...like the..._ he found it impossible to finish the thought, slipping between his fingers.

A second explosion happened then, an explosion of life as his eyes shot open and he coughed up the water that had been trapped in his throat. It took him a moment to get his bearings—huddled on the shore of the reservoir, soaked to the bone. He had no memory of how he came to be there, or even who he was supposed to be. His mind was calm and quiet, like the water he had surfaced from.

The pounding had not been his heart, as he first thought, but the hands of the woman doing compressions on his chest in a desperate effort to bring him back from the brink of death. A jogger—her legs clad in a gray Nike track suit and the white wires of a music device spiraling around her torso like a second set of veins. Her eyes widened with concern as she rolled him on his side, so he could choke up the last of the water.

The water tasted bitter.

"...sir? ...alright?" Her timid voice echoed in his ears, her lips moving, but he could not seem to cling to her words until his brain stopped swimming inside his head.

"I'm...sorry?" he croaked out, squinting up at her through the harsh glare of the sunlight. She smiled in relief— _I am free._ Where did that thought come from?

"Are you alright?" she spoke slowly. He glanced around curiously, assessing his situation. No pain, no discomfort aside from the wet clothes and cold water drenching his body, nothing to complain of except for a startling loss of memory and a bitter taste in his mouth. Something else nagged him from the furthest recesses of his mind, something important he should remember...

The notion was gone as quickly as it came, leaving him confused and helplessly shaking his head.

"I...don't know."

"What's your name?"

"I don't know," he repeated. It seemed strange not to remember one's own name, but no matter how hard he tried to summon it, he could not come up with a name that seemed right. Sympathy bloomed across her face then, sympathy for a man who might not be altogether well.

All he could think, as she helped him to his feet, were two simple words: _thank God._ He wasn't aware he had spoken out loud until she squeezed his arm and bobbed her head approvingly.

"Yes, thank God." She made the sign of the cross over her forehead. "From the looks of it, you're lucky to be alive."


	57. New Year's Eve

A/N: I know it's a few days late, but since we just celebrated New Year's, I wanted to do a special SPN one-shot for the occasion. It may be a little on the sad side, so my apologies ahead of time. I hope you all had a good New Year's, though!

New Year's Eve.

Even for two hunters such as Sam and Dean Winchester, who spent every waking hour traveling across the country in pursuit of the deadliest of monsters, they made time to celebrate. It wasn't anything fancy or special. Certainly they would never be one of the hundreds of giddy people crowded in Times Square to watch the ball drop from above their heads, nor could they afford to dine in a nice restaurant or pop champagne at midnight. The hunting life did not permit such luxuries. Every year they made the best with the little they had and counted their blessings to have each other as the new year rolled around.

Before heading back to their crappy motel of the week, they stopped at the gas station for supplies and to fill up the car. They grabbed a couple of greasy hamburgers for dinner and a pie reserved for Dean, of course. Chocolate, with enough whipped cream on top to cover the entire thing. Sam took one look at it and called it a toothache waiting to happen, in the same disapproving tone he used whenever he criticized Dean's terrible diet. Dean was all too happy to carry the pie to the register, cradling it like a newborn in his arms and mouth already watering in delight. If anything was going to kill him in this world, he doubted it would be something as mundane as his diet. Or so he hoped.

Sam had wanted to order a salad, but Dean snorted and suggested he "live a little." So Sam gave in and ordered a hamburger instead, with extra lettuce and tomato, as if that would be enough to justify the otherwise greasy meal. In any case, it looked far less likely to clog his arteries than Dean's double bacon cheeseburger. Extra cheese, extra bacon, just how Dean liked it.

Back at their motel room, they gobbled down their burgers and toasted the arrival of the new year with a couple of cheap beers. Despite his earlier complaints, Sam now moaned with pleasure as he popped the last chunk of burger in his mouth, savoring it longer than Dean, who often seemed to be a human vacuum when it came to food. The warmth of both food and drink sank into Sam's stomach, chasing away the late December chill.

Shiny silver ribbons spiraled around the doorways, held there with thick gray strips of duct tape. They had forgotten to pick up some clear tape at the store, but Dean shrugged it off as he retrieved a roll of duct tape from the trunk of the car. "Duct tape solves everything," he declared, smiling proudly at his handiwork.

Colorful streamers shot out of their hands and across the room like toilet paper on Halloween. Dean even bought a red Christmas bow to stick on the hood of the Impala, insisting that his Baby deserved to join in on the celebration since she was part of the family. Sam was only afraid that one of these days Dean would finally give up hope of a real love life and marry his car. And yet he could not find it in his heart to argue with his brother. After all, they had the car for as long as he could remember and it was the only way they could travel from Point A to Point B during their hunting trips. If anything happened to her, Dean would be devastated.

A buzzing television set in the corner served as their window to the outside world, a snowy gray screen dimly projecting the view of New York City and the sparkling silver ball that would drop when the clock struck midnight. Dean cursed under his breath and pounded his fist on the top of the box, hoping to make the picture clearer somehow, but it was no use. Sam didn't mind and he even cheered along with the crowd as the ball finally dropped. All at once, he felt like a little kid again, staying up until midnight with Dean, telling stories in the dark and waiting to see if the world felt any different now that it was a new year.

Their beer bottles clinked together. The two brothers shared a hug, patting each other on the back for surviving one more year.

At 12:01, Dean's cell phone rang in his pocket. It was a call from Bobby. He was the closest thing the boys had to a father now and so it was with warm hearts and broad smiles that they answered his call.

"Hey, Bobby!" Dean exclaimed, raising his beer bottle in salute as if Bobby was standing there in front of them.

"Happy New Year, Bobby," Sam added before switching off the television and silencing the New York crowd once and for all. No use leaving it on now, with the main event having arrived and the screen depicting more static than picture.

"Same to you," Bobby replied, and there was a pause as he took an honorary sip of his own drink. "Now just do me a favor, you idjits, and try not to die before the new year really gets going."

"We'll make it our New Year's resolution. Should be easier than promising to go to the gym, right?" Dean remarked and started to laugh. As usual, whenever Dean made a joke, no one laughed with him. Sam knew he could practically make a Top 10 list of their deaths.

"We'll take care of each other," Sam promised.

"You'd better," Bobby warned, sounding deadly serious. They didn't know what Bobby would do without the two boys he had come to adopt in his mind. Likewise, they didn't know what they would do without him to turn to for help or advice, having lost one father already.

After their talk with Bobby had ended and they said their goodbyes, the boys had one more drink each before retiring to their beds. Even though it was New Year's, their celebration was short-lived. The monsters in the world surely did not stop to celebrate such a milestone; they were too often preying on the innocent when they least expected it. Come morning, the two brothers would have more work to do. They laid their bruised and tired bodies on their flat, stiff beds, intending to get as much rest as possible before starting their next hunt.

Sam could not sleep. Not yet, anyway. He had a tradition of his own every year, even if it was a melancholy one. Like clockwork, before he closed his eyes for the night, he reached into the duffel bag beside his bed and brought out a small wooden box. The box was never far from his reach, reserved for special occasions such as this one. It was a plain mahogany box that might have once been a jewelry box, but now contained some of his most valuable treasures.

His Stanford acceptance letter. The ring he was going to present to Jessica on the day he proposed to her, before she was brutally murdered by Azazel. A black and white photo of his parents when they were younger and newly dating, leaning against the Impala, Mary's light head on John's shoulder. Another photo tucked away beneath it, one of him and and Jess one summer, one of his hands resting on her bare shoulder, the other extended beyond the frame as he took the picture, her arms thrown around his neck, the both of them smiling as they kissed.

"Happy New Year, Mom, Dad...Jess," Sam whispered, hoping not to wake his brother while he performed this bittersweet ritual. He would bring out that box and stare into it for a long time, maybe touch some of those treasures and get lost in the memories each one stirred in his mind. Most of all, he held those pictures, frozen glimpses of happier times, and lament all the years he spent without the people he loved so dearly.

When it became too much to bear, Sam would close that box and tuck it away in his duffel bag once more, under his clothes so Dean would not discover it. Rolling over, he would close his eyes, and eventually slip into a restless, dreamless sleep.

Laying on his side, his back to Sam, Dean was wide awake. He knew what Sam was doing as that wooden box creaked open, had known for a couple of years now, but he always pretended not to hear. They all had skeletons in their closets. Every now and then, even the best hunters felt the urge to open the closet door and peer inside. Come next year, he knew Sam would repeat the process all over again. He wondered if it made the pain hurt any less. He wasn't foolish enough to hope the pain ever went away, not completely.

Suddenly the words of a familiar Christmas song passed through Dean's head as he closed his eyes and begged for sleep to silence the skeletons in his own closet. _Another year over,_ he thought with a sigh he tried to disguise as a snore. _And a new one just begun._

 _Let's hope it's a good one._


	58. Clowns

A/N: I've had the idea to write this one-shot for a while, ever since I saw the new It movie in the theaters (which I thought was delightfully dark, by the way). I also saw the original miniseries starring Tim Curry for the first time not too long ago. This is just another potential explanation for Sam's terror of killer clowns. Enjoy!

Clowns

"Son of a bitch," Dean Winchester cursed under his breath for the tenth time in as many minutes as he surveyed the standing still traffic on the highway. A mud-brown pickup truck swerved too close to Baby's hood as the driver tried to cut into his lane. Dean slammed his hand on the horn. "Oh, nice finger gesture, grandma!" Dean gave it back to her twicefold.

Suddenly he remembered why he hated driving through big cities and why he preferred silent streets in the early hours of the morning. Saving people was part of their mission when it came to the family business, but sometimes...sometimes...Dean didn't like people too much.

To ease his frustration, he popped in one of his favorite Led Zeppelin tapes and hummed along with the opening chords of "Stairway to Heaven."

"Again, Dean?" Sam moaned in the passenger's seat. "Didn't you just listen to this tape yesterday?"

"Don't ever knock Zeppelin, Sammy, or you're free to walk."

"At this rate, I'd beat you there."

The car rolled an inch forward and halted. Even Led Zeppelin did not help Dean's thinning patience, his fingers gripping the wheel until his hands turned white, all the while fighting the urge to slam the horn again. To make matters worse, his stomach was running on empty, rumbling louder than Baby's engine. Sam shook his head.

"I told you to save some snacks for later, but you never listen to me," Sam berated.

"Sorry, Mom."

In his own growing boredom, Sam had retrieved his laptop from under his seat and began scrolling through the emails in his inbox, searching for any sign of a potential new case to follow. When nothing turned up, he checked the most recent news stories for anything that sounded suspicious. Now he moved on to playing a game of Solitaire to pass the time. Dean didn't know which sight was sadder to behold: the infinite string of cars ahead or Sam actually enjoying his lonesome game of Solitaire.

Over the rows of cars, Dean spotted a colorful billboard displaying giant images of elephants, acrobats swinging through the air, and the eerily cheerful faces of clowns. For the first time since they got on the highway to hell, Dean smiled.

"Hey! The circus is in town!" He pointed out the sign, but Sam kept his eyes glued to the computer screen. "What do say we make a detour, Sammy? It's not like we're going anywhere fast, anyway."

"No." That was it, end of discussion. "Look at that. I won yet another game of-"

"How about you don't change the subject?" Dean intervened.

"Or how about this, Dean? There's probably some little girl out there with a cat stuck in a tree. Why don't you go save it or are you still too afraid of kitties?"

"That was one time! I wasn't exactly myself, remember? I, Dean Winchester, am not afraid of cats!" Sam's snicker begged to differ. "Did you ever stop to wonder why you're so afraid of clowns in the first place?"

"I know why," Sam said matter-of-factly. "When I was seven, you made me watch it."

"Watch what? Porn?" Sam reared his head up from the laptop, his face twisted in revulsion.

"Ew, no! That was when I was eleven. And what kind of porn do you watch that features clowns?" Dean opened his mouth, but Sam waved him back into silence. "On second thought, I don't want to know. You made me watch It. Capital I. Killer clown that eats children. Starring Tim Curry."

"Oh, yeah..." Dean giggled as that particular dusty memory resurfaced from the dark corners of his mind. "Wait a minute. Are you saying it's my fault you can't look at Ronald McDonald without wetting yourself?" Sam shot his brother a dark look, his lips pursed.

"I do not...wet myself. I panic. It's a typical response for anyone walking around with a phobia. And yes, that's kind of what I'm saying." The car inched its way beyond the billboard.

"At least we'll have plenty to talk about in therapy. You know, if we ever went to therapy." Like that would ever happen. With everything they had been through-all the monsters they killed, all the times they died, all the friends they lost-he thought they should have been going to therapy years ago.

"What kind of therapist would even believe us?" Sam scoffed.

...

The world was drowning.

At least, that's how it looked to young Sam Winchester as he leaned on the windowsill, nose pressed to the glass, watching shiny silver teardrops slide across the window. His finger traced one and then another. He waited to see which drop would reach the bottom of the glass first.

How much fun it would be to play out there in the rain, splashing though the puddles and collecting the drops on his tongue like early snowflakes. He even got up the courage to ask his dad if he could go outside, just for a little while, but of course the answer was no, with an excuse that he would only get sick.

 _He never lets me do anything fun,_ Sam thought as he shuffled his feet to the window where he moped even now. _I'll bet Bobby would let us play in the rain._

So Sam was stuck inside, trapped behind the glass, close enough to see the outside world, but too far away to touch it. There was nothing to do except play Shadow with Dean until he got mad, and Sam was already tired of that game. All Dean did was read stupid comic books and stuff his face with food.

Behind him, John Winchester's heavy boots marched across the floor, followed by a familiar rattle as he picked up the keys to the car. He was leaving again. Sam stuck out his tongue, desperately hoping to taste one of the raindrops. No such luck.

 _Dad is going out in the rain. Why can't I?_

It wasn't fair.

"Tell me the rules again," John commanded as the door creaked opened.

Sam didn't have to look to know his dad was talking to Dean, who followed him around like his own shadow. It seemed Dean was always playing Shadow with their dad-dressing like him, walking like him, talking like him. Dad didn't get mad like Dean did when Sam started copying him. In fact, he didn't seem to notice that Dean was playing Shadow at all.

"Remember to eat dinner, brush our teeth, bed by nine...oh, and take care of Sammy," Dean recited, tilting his head up like a dog waiting for a tasty treat. Sam smiled. Only Dean was allowed to call him Sammy.

"What was that last one again?"

"Take care of Sammy...sir?" Sometimes Dean played Soldier with Dad too, taking orders like he was on the battlefield in some great war. Sam thought Dean would be the best soldier there ever was.

"It's the most important rule of them all. Never forget it." It was a routine they had carried out for as long as Sam could remember, long before that one terrible night, not too long after that rainy afternoon, when Dean shirked his responsibilities to go to the arcade and leave a deadly creature to feed on Sam.

Just like that, the latch on the door clicked shut and their dad was gone. Through the streaming curtain of water, Sam glimpsed his dad getting into the car. Sam hoped he didn't get sick out there.

"So...Sammy," Dean sang, sounding much more cheerful than he did when Dad was here. Dean blew on the glass until it fogged up and drew some music notes with his finger. That was another thing he and Dad had in common: he always listened to Dad's music.

Dean nudged Sam's shoulder.

"Want to watch some tv?"

..…

 _I've had the time of my-_ Click.

"If you or your loved ones have been diagnosed with-" Click.

 _Go, go, Power Rangers!_

"Ooh!" Sam exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. He scooted across the floor and closer to the television screen. Click. "Hey! How come you never want to watch what I want to watch?"

Sam whipped his head around and scrunched his nose up at his brother, sitting high and mighty in Dad's chair, wielding the remote in his hand like he was the Queen of England.

"Because everything you want to watch is stupid." Dean stuck out his tongue. One click of the remote and the tv blared a familiar tune: _na-na-na-na-Batman!_ "Batman is way cooler."

"Nuh-uh! Gimme!" Sam pounced on Dean and made a grab for the remote. Dean waved it above his head, wincing as Sam crawled on top of him in an effort to reach it.

"Sam, no! Stop that! Dad said you have to do what I say!"

"Nuh- _uh!_ He said take care of Sammy! Sammy wants Power Rangers!"

No matter how high he stretched, Sam couldn't ever seem to reach the remote. He was much smaller than Dean, after all. Dean pushed Sam back down with a hand on his head, fingers tangled up in Sam's long hair until Sam cried out.

"Okay, okay! We'll find something we both want to watch!" Rapidly Dean pressed the buttons on the remote, searching for something that would entertain Sam long enough to shake him off. Finally he stopped on a movie that was only just beginning. "Look! That kid sort of looks like you!"

Sam paused in slapping Dean's face and turned back to the television. On the screen, a little boy about Sam's age dressed in a yellow rain slicker chased a paper boat through flooded streets. As though in a trance, Sam slid back down to the floor, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. Sam even began to smile and laugh along with the little boy as he raced after the boat, jumping through puddles and splashing water behind him.

Maybe he would ask Dean if he knew how to make a boat like that.

The paper boat soared and spun with the current, headed straight for the gaping mouth of a sewer grate. The boy ran harder, but could never catch up with it. Sam's laughter ceased at the same time as the boy's as he realized what was about to happen.

"No!" they both shouted, and Dean had to stifle a giggle behind his hand.

The paper boat fell into the sewer.

The little boy crouched down, peering into the damp darkness of the sewer. Sam inched closer to the screen, peering with him. It was impossible to see anything down there...until a white face emerged from the shadows. The painted face of a clown, with tufts of red hair sprouting from his head.

Sam had never been to the circus before, nor did he ever have the kind of birthday where a clown showed up to present children with balloon animals. The only clowns he ever saw were the ones on tv and they were always friendly and funny.

The clown offered up the paper boat and the little boy reached down into the sewer to take it.

"Uh...Sam?" Dean spoke, his voice riddled with uncertainty, but Sam was much too absorbed in the movie to look away from the screen. Just a few inches more and the little boy would have his paper boat back. Then he could go on his merry way, chasing the boat as it sailed along, giggling, splashing, and-

The clown was not friendly or funny anymore. In the space of a heartbeat, it transformed into something out of a nightmare.

Its eyes gleamed with hunger in the darkness, its mouth widened to reveal a set of razor sharp teeth like dozens of tiny knives. It grabbed ahold of the boy's arm, dragging him down into the sewer as it lunged for his face, meaning to swallow him whole like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood.

Sam shrieked and squirmed away from the screen, tucking his knees up to his chest. He couldn't help it; his body trembled and he began to cry. Wet, fat drops rolled down his cheeks like the raindrops that speckled the windows. All fantasies of playing outside in the rain fled his mind. All Sam could see was that little boy being dragged to his doom by that evil clown.

"Hey, Sam, it's okay! It's just a movie!" Dean changed the channel. "Look, it's gone!"

No matter how his brother pleaded with him, Sam could not lift his head from his knees, paralyzed with fear, terrified that he would still see that clown there, munching on kid-sized bones. Instead he sniffled and blindly reached out for Dean, like he always did when he was afraid. Dean was his big brother, but he was also his protector.

He felt Dean's arms wrap around him and a fresh wave of tears flooded Dean's neck.

"It's okay, Sam. I'm here. Nothing's gonna get you while I'm around, right?" Sam nodded weakly as he clung to his brother for dear life. Eventually he stopped shaking and shortly after that stopped sobbing. Only a sniffle and a hiccup here and there. "What do you say we watch Power Rangers?"

Sam pulled away and peeked at the screen. There they were, flashing across the screen in five different colors. Sam curled against Dean on the couch. After just a few moments of watching, Sam's body relaxed and the first hint of a smile illuminated his face once more, all thoughts of dark sewers and killer clowns ebbing away.

Dean felt relief wash over him as he kept a close eye on his little brother. Maybe everything would be okay.

...

Everything was not okay.

Dad found out about how Dean let Sam watch a scary movie and grounded him for a week. No television, no dessert after dinner, and no staying up past eight. As much as his punishment sucked, Dean did not care for it as much as Sam's lingering side effects from watching the movie.

For a straight month, Sam could not fall asleep unless Dean snuck into bed beside him and held him close, whispering the song "Hey, Jude" into his ear like their mother did for him. More than a year passed and Sam still did not sleep without a nightlight, too afraid of something crawling around in the dark. The next time he saw a clown on television, he screamed and started to cry, just like he did that rainy day. If they went out into the rain, Sam clung to Dean's hand and avoided walking too close to the sewers, lest some evil clown grabbed his ankle and dragged him into the darkness below.

Dean never made him a paper boat.

...

 _Beep beeeep!_

The sound of furious honking startled Dean out of his bad memories, along with Sam's impatient shouts in his ear.

"Dean, hello? Earth to Dean! Drive!" Sam waved a hand in front of his face and Dean slapped it away. The traffic had started moving a little faster since he began daydreaming and he bolted forward a few feet before slowing again. "Where were you just now?"

"Oh, you know...just thinking about how Batman was way cooler than Power Rangers." Sam snorted, but the little smirk in the corner of his lips proved to Dean that he remembered.

Maybe it was his fault that Sam was terrified of clowns. It was just one more thing he had to live with.


	59. Valentine

A/N: Since Valentine's Day is right around the corner, I couldn't resist writing up a little one-shot for the occasion. I hope you all enjoy it and have a nice Valentine's Day with your loved ones!

Valentine

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Dean said as he gently knelt on the damp ground. "But it's also been a long time coming. Where do I start? Have I told you lately that I..." He glanced around, in case there were any spying eyes. "...love you?"

In his head, he heard the notes of a familiar Rod Stewart song, and he wished he had popped in some nice music to set the mood. There was no answer, but Dean had expected that.

"Probably not, because talking about my feelings isn't exactly my forte," Dean murmured to himself, the heat of his embarrassment crawling up the back of his neck. If Sam caught him doing this now, he would never live it down. "Today is obviously a special day, so...I just need to get this out. I hope you know how much you mean to me. You've always been there for me, for as long as I can remember. No matter what life throws at us."

A soft touch.

"You've seen it all, the good and the bad...and you've never given up on me."

A timid kiss.

"I don't know what I would do without you. You're strong, you're beautiful...and even though I don't always know how to say it...I want you to know I will always lo-"

"Dean?" Sam's voice shattered the moment. Dean swore he heard a record screech somewhere inside his head, cutting off the song that was playing there. "Are you serenading your car _again_?"

Dean threw his arms over Baby's hood, shielding her from Sam and his sudden intrusion.

"Damn it, Sam, it's Valentine's Day! She's the only woman in my life right now, so excuse me if I make her feel special!" Dean pressed another kiss to Baby's sleek black hood, newly washed that afternoon, and fixed the bright red velvet bow he had wrapped around her. "Don't listen to him, Baby. You know you're my best girl."

 _Click!_

Dean glanced up to see Sam wielding his phone, a mischievous grin all over his face as he snapped another picture.

"What the hell was that for?" Dean barked.

"So that when I share this story with people like Cas and Jody and Donna, I have proof." Sam waved the phone in his hand, daring Dean to do something about it. Dean jumped to his feet.

"Sam, give me the phone!" He lunged for his brother, but Sam saw it coming and dodged. He took off like a shot, long legs pumping and hair whipping behind him, with Dean chasing after him. The two brothers circled the car, round and round and round again.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Dean!" Sam laughed as he snapped more pictures over his shoulder.

" _Sam!_ "


	60. Like Father, Like Son

_A/N: I don't know about you, but I have grown to like Jack very quickly. So it was inevitable that I eventually include him in one of these one-shots. More than anything, I want more scenes between him and his "father" Castiel, so this one-shot features a little heart to heart between the two. I hope you enjoy it._

 _Like Father, Like Son_

"And then, just after I open the locker, a cat jumps out, and Dean makes this girly scream-" Sam imitated a high-pitched shriek, hands waving in the air like a frightened girl. Jack laughed, but Dean shook his head, his jaw clenched tight and his face tomato-red.

"Dude, it wasn't _that_ girly!"

"Yes, it was. I think you even broke a window or two." Sam didn't bother to hide his own rupture of giggles.

"Yeah, well..." Dean rubbed the back of his neck, searching for a worthy comeback, but came up empty. "I wasn't exactly myself that day, remember? You know what, since you feel like sharing stories, why don't you tell him the story of how you turned into Baby."

All traces of humor vanished from Sam's face, replaced with his own discomfort. Jack swiveled his head around and stared at Sam in wide-eyed wonder, as if he expected Sam to do it again right there in the library.

"Sam turned into a car?" It was Dean's turn to laugh while Sam glared at him across the table. "How is that even possible?"

"All thanks to a little trick pulled on us by the archangel, Gabriel. I even had to pull the holy oil out of Sam's ass."

"Ugh, don't remind me," Sam groaned, shifting in his seat. "It was so uncomfortable to have you...you know...riding in me. No matter how I say it, it sounds wrong."

"I'm confused," Jack said, tilting his head. "I thought hunting was a serious and dangerous job."

"Oh, it is," Sam insisted. "It's just that we also see the weirdest of the weird on a daily basis."

"The kind of weird no one else would believe outside of a Disney Channel show."

"I'm sure you have plenty of experience with that, Dean," Sam teased. "I know how much you cried when _Hannah Montana_ ended." Dean shot his brother a rude gesture and Sam leaped over the table to cover Dean's fist before Jack could see it. "Not in front of the kid!"

Dean wrestled his hand out of Sam's grip, but the gesture did not return.

"And then there was the time Sam was cursed by this unlucky rabbit foot and couldn't even scratch his nose without starting a fire."

"Three words, Dean. Little. Red. Shorts." It was an ongoing tennis match, the two brothers firing back one wild story after another with Jack caught in the middle. Finally it was Dean who gave up and rose from his seat, right after Sam mentioned a time where Dean started to behave like a dog.

"Okay, it's been fun, but it's been a long, long, long...long, long day. I'm spending the rest of my evening with some fine Asian beauties. Me, myself, and them."

"We didn't need to know that," Sam said, barely suppressing a shudder.

"Know what?" Jack glanced from one brother to the other, not quite following.

"We'll tell you when you're older."

"So give or take a week, then," Dean remarked, patting Jack on the back as he passed. He chuckled at his own joke, but no one else did. "You know, 'cause you went from baby to Negasonic Teenage Warhead in a matter of seconds-"

"We get it, Dean," Sam cut him off. As the two brothers wandered toward the door, weary bodies seeking warm beds, Jack remained seated at the table, the vast emptiness of the library all at once making him feel more alone than ever. Being only half-human, he did not require sleep the way Sam and Dean did, and thus needed to occupy his time some other way until they awoke.

"What am I supposed to do here, all by myself?" Jack wondered aloud.

The brothers paused in the doorway, exchanging unsure glances. They had taken precautions to "baby-proof" the bunker while Jack grew accustomed to human life-stowing away the knives in the kitchen, storing the beer in the back of the fridge behind the milk and juice, sweeping up small objects in case he tried to eat them, keeping all electrical devices out of reach-but it seemed there was little else left to entertain Jack. It wasn't like taking care of an actual infant that could be easily fascinated by a set of keys. Dean was much too afraid of leaving his keys lying around the bunker, in case Jack decided to take his car for a spin into the nearest ditch.

Dean snapped his fingers.

"I know just the thing!" Marching back to the table, Dean picked up Sam's laptop and set it down in front of Jack. With a couple clicks of the keys, the laptop featured a white screen, with only one colorful word in the middle. "Here you go. Play with Google. It knows everything. Anything you want to know, ask away."

"Goo-gle," Jack pronounced slowly, mesmerized by the glowing screen in front of him.

"Dean, do you really think Jack is going to be amazed by Google all night?" Sam whispered as he followed his brother into the hall, leaving Jack to his own devices.

"It's technology, Sam. Every kid has some kind of device attached to the end of their nose these days. He'll be fine."

"And what if he looks up something he shouldn't? What if he uses my laptop for the same reasons you do?" Dean clamped a hand down on Sam's shoulder.

"Relax, Sammy. I don't think he knows about the birds and the bees yet."

In the library, Jack poked and prodded the computer as if it might explode under his touch. Sam's laptop was often off-limits to him until he could learn how to handle it with care, especially with his powers building with each passing day.

He tested out a few of the keys. Any letter he selected appeared on the screen, inside the narrow box beneath the name Google: _jadkwendi._ It took a moment to find the right key to make the jumble of letters disappear.

 _It knows everything,_ Dean had said. _Anything you want to know, ask away._

But what should he ask?

Instead of asking, he typed out a single word. Something he truly desired at the moment. _Nougat._ He pressed the _Enter_ key.

The screen changed, magically replaced with a treasure trove of new information. The first thing he saw was the definition for the word nougat: _a candy made from sugar or honey, nuts, and egg white._ Just reading about it made his stomach growl; a strange sensation, indeed. He clicked on _Images_ and was rewarded with pictures of some of the most delicious treats he had ever seen. Whole sticks of chocolate, brownie-shaped desserts speckled with nuts, bite-sized chunks that he could almost taste on his tongue. Too bad Google seemed incapable of producing real nougat.

Next he typed his name. If Google knew everything, would it know who he was?

It seemed not. He did not realize there were more Jacks out there in the world, all of them wearing different faces, all of them unfamiliar to him.

 _Jack Skellington._ A tall, thin skeleton figure in a suit, the transparent ghost of a dog floating by his side.

 _Jacksepticeye._ A young boy, perhaps no older than Jack was now and human by the looks of it, smiling behind the computer screen, his hair an unusual shade of neon green.

 _Jack Daniels._ This one did not feature a face, only a name in the form of a logo, but it rang a bell in Jack's mind. In a flash, he remembered where he heard it before. Dean once called Jack Daniels an old, bitter friend of his.

 _Jack Dawson._ A handsome young man standing at the very edge of a ship, holding a woman by the waist, her hair flaming red and arms outstretched to embrace the horizon. Jack touched his face, marveling over the slight resemblance he had with this Jack Dawson.

What else should he inquire about?

What question did he want answered more than any other? The answer whispered across his mind and he found his hands gliding over the necessary keys before he could even consider if it was a good idea.

 _Lu...ci...fer..._ he typed into the little box at the top of the screen. His finger hovered over the _Enter_ key. Did he even want to know what sort of person his father was? Every time Lucifer's name came up, Sam and Dean acted like he was a terrible monster, one that had caused them both great distress and pain. Was he ready to face his father's dark legacy?

Ready or not, Jack felt an undeniable urge to know. It was not only his mother's blood that pumped through his veins, and this unimaginable power could only be a result of his father's natural mark on him. If he truly wanted to be a good person, he had to know how much he had inherited from his father.

Jack pressed _Enter_.

The screen flashed again, this time unfolding every piece of information this world had gathered about Lucifer. There were biblical paintings of the archangel with massive wings, often being turned away by his holy father before his infamous fall from Heaven. There were images of silky black serpents whispering in Eve's ear, tempting her to take a bite of the forbidden fruit in her hand. Some images were dark and deadly, others beautiful and admirable.

Apparently, Lucifer even had his own television show.

It was an overwhelming stream of information, and Jack was left with more questions than answers.

"Jack?"

He jumped in his chair and slammed the lid of the laptop shut. Hopelessly consumed in his research, he hadn't noticed another presence in the bunker until Castiel loomed over his shoulder, blue eyes squinting in concern.

Had Castiel glimpsed what was on that computer screen? Jack hoped not.

"Castiel," he greeted, forcing a smile. He twisted in his chair and covered the laptop with his elbow in the hopes of hiding it. If Castiel couldn't see it, surely he would forget about it. "I didn't hear you come in. Where have you been?"

Castiel's lips pressed together as he surveyed Jack. It looked like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it as he sank into the chair next to Jack. For an angel that did not require sleep, Castiel appeared exhausted, his suit disheveled from prolonged travel, the lines around his eyes growing deeper from seeing too much of the world.

"Sometimes I wander," Castiel admitted, "helping humans wherever I can. Sometimes I volunteer to follow a lead myself, while Sam and Dean are preoccupied with other matters. Sometimes I find a church and allow myself to think without being disturbed." For a moment, Castiel seemed to forget that Jack was there as he traced a knuckle over his lip and pondered over something that made his blue eyes darken. "Honestly, without Sam and Dean, I'm not sure what to do with myself. It seems I am still as much a stranger on this earth as you are now."

"You miss Heaven?" Castiel shrugged.

"Heaven is not as pleasant as the name suggests...but it was once my home. I think of it, now and again."

Castiel's smile was brittle. Jack had never set foot in Heaven, but he found himself hesitant to bombard Castiel with questions about it, lest he pry into Castiel's unwelcome memories. Maybe those questions were better suited for his new friend Google.

Castiel awoke from his poignant trance and glanced at the laptop pinned beneath Jack's elbow.

"What were you doing with Sam's laptop?"

"Nothing," Jack blurted out. The silence stretched on between the until Jack could hear his own rapid heartbeat in his ears.

"You know," Castiel said, leaning closer, "I've heard it takes tremendous willpower to sit in one place and do absolutely nothing." Castiel raised his eyebrows and tapped a finger on the lid of the laptop, a silent inquiry. Jack squirmed under those unwavering blue eyes until he could no longer stand it. He opened the laptop and turned it around for Castiel to see. "You were Googling your father."

"Googling?"

"Sorry. You were curious about your father." Jack hung his head.

"Of course I was. Am. I don't know anything about him, except that he's my biological father. I...don't know if I should say this, but when I think of what my father should be, I think of you, not him."

Castiel's face softened and he reached over to place a hand over Jack's.

"Jack, I would be proud to be your father." This startled Jack so much that his hand almost slipped out from Castiel's. Pride was not a concept he had experienced before, but it was welcomed by a warm feeling in his chest.

"Why?"

"You're special. You're strong. And despite all the power you wield, I sense that you long to use it for something good." Castiel took back his hand, his gaze glazing over once more with the ghost of his memories. "I was like you when I first came to this earth. I was a fish out of water, in over my head, and I was sent on a mission to do God's work. Or what the angels thought was God's work. My creator was never around much either and I didn't quite agree with the orders that were passed down from my superiors."

Like a child during a bedtime story, Jack hung on Castiel's every word.

"Why did you carry them out, then?"

"Because at the time, I was a good little angel and I believed it was what I was meant to do. Then I met Sam and Dean, and they made me part of their family. They shpwed me the beauty of having free will. In time, I felt like I belonged with them more than the angels I once called my brothers. So I turned my back on Heaven, and I aided the Winchesters in any way I could."

"And you don't regret it?" Castiel turned his face toward the ceiling, as if he could see through it to Heaven above.

"Given the chance, I might do it the same way all over again. I found a new home, a better one, where I am not judged for who I was, but accepted for who I can be." Once more he captured Jack's eyes and did not let go. "Lucifer may be your father, but believe me when I say that no one should be judged by the sins of his father, only by his own actions. If you do choose to stay with us, I have no doubt that Sam and Dean will be willing to take you in, as they did for me."

Jack wasn't too certain about Dean, who preferred to avoid him at all costs, but Sam was determined to keep an open mind despite all the damage Lucifer had done. He glanced at the laptop, still crammed with useless information about the Devil and all his incarnations. Perhaps Google didn't know everything, after all.

"So...my father isn't...nice?" The doubt that flickered across Castiel's face all but confirmed it, no matter how he tried to conceal it.

"Lucifer is considered to be the most beautiful angel in Heaven, and for that he is ridiculously conceited. Powerful beyond measure, just like you, but he is not nice. He has waged war on humanity, he has shed endless blood in his wake. He killed one of my closest brothers." Castiel's voice faltered, but Jack was unsure how to comfort him. He decided to follow Castiel's example and patted his hand, earning a smile for his effort. "Lucifer is not nice, but you are. You can be whatever you wish, Jack."

"Thank you," he whispered, for he did not know what else to say after such an unexpected compliment. Just like that, he felt more sure of himself than he had since his birth. _Confidence..._ that was what he felt, and a far more pleasant feeling it was than the confusion and fear he had experienced so far in his short life.

"I like this... _Googling_ ," Jack said, turning his gaze back to the computer screen. As his eyes scanned the screen, taking in the never-ending flood of new information, he tilted his head. Castiel snickered. "What?"

"You remind me of me. That's the same expression I typically wear when I'm confused by something." Cas mirrored Jack's head tilt.

"Are you sure you're not really my father?" Jack asked. Castiel laughed, a sound that Jack had not heard too often, but rather enjoyed.

"I am sure, but I am also ready to guide you along the way as if I was. A remarkable man once did the same thing for the Winchesters. I only hope I can do the job half as well." Jack did not know how to say so just yet, but he thought Castiel was doing a decent job so far. "So what else have you discovered? What do you like?"

Jack was grateful for the change in subject, his head spinning with everything that had already passed between them.

"Nougat," came Jack's eager reply. The reminder of the mouthwatering images he had found on Sam's computer made his stomach growl again. Castiel must have heard it, for he rose from his chair and made a beeline for the kitchen. When he returned, he offered a candy bar to Jack.

"Don't tell Dean I gave you one of his candy bars. He can be protective of his...stash." Jack was all too happy to keep that secret as he munched on the candy bar, the sweet taste of chocolate and caramel melting in his mouth. He extended the candy bar to Castiel, but the angel declined with a wave of his hand. "I'm more of a Skittles man myself."

Jack didn't know what Skittles were, but he added it to the ever-growing list of things to try in this world.

"How about Netflix?" Castiel asked. Jack's mouth was far too full to answer, so he merely shook his head. Castiel's blue eyes widened and he grabbed the laptop, his fingers flying across the keys. "There is a show you must watch. It is called _Stranger Things_ and it features a girl with incredible powers who reminds me of you. Except she has a taste for Eggos."

Jack managed to swallow the lump of chocolate in his throat.

"Eggos?" Castiel sighed.

"You have a lot to learn, my son."


	61. Bedside Manner

A/N: This one-shot is a little different than others I have done before in this series. This is an AU one-shot centered on Cas and Dean, inspired by a post I saw on Pinterest that depicted them in the hospital together and forming a bond. I apologize if there are readers who do not ship Destiel, but this one-shot is heavily Destiel-themed. Other than that, I hope you enjoy it, even though it's a bit long.

Bedside Manner

Dean was having a nightmare.

There he was, riding alongside his brother in his favorite car-his only car, really-flipping the radio station to Led Zeppelin with Sam protesting loudly behind the wheel. _BAM!_ Tires squealing, metal crunching, their bodies flying toward the windshield. Or through the windshield, in Dean's case. Pain everywhere-his neck, his back, even places he didn't know he had. Fire raced through the muscles in his leg, as if someone had replaced the bone with a red hot poker.

Then darkness. Somehow, that was worse. It was quiet and cold, like the hand of death.

Dean's mind swam out of the black void of unconsciousness, but the fire remained.

White lights buzzed above his head, burning his eyes as he cracked them open. _Am I dead?_ he wondered, his throat too parched to ask it aloud. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know the answer. With this much pain, he rather wished he was dead.

After a moment, he took a chance in opening his eyes again. The white lights came from a set of fluorescent lights set in the ceiling above his bed. Except this wasn't his bed. Starched white sheets draped his body, a stiff pillow supported his head, one that emitted an awful crinkling noise every time he dared to move. A draft brushed across his skin, causing him to shiver. He had been stripped of his clothes, the only garment left a thin blue gown. To his shock, his leg was now encased in a white cast. A plastic tab pinched his finger, tubes spiraled out of his veins, and somewhere next to his ear, he heard the faint monotone _beep beep beep_ of machines.

He was in a hospital.

It wasn't a dream, after all.

His poor Baby, pinned under the weight of that truck.

"Please," a man's voice pleaded. Slowly, his neck aching with sharp darts of pain, he turned his head to see he had a roommate. Great. Just what he needed: to listen to someone else's whining while he was unable to escape it.

In the next bed, less than three feet away, there was a man who could not be much older than Dean. A cloud of dark hair framed a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen. The man clutched a phone to his ear, speaking in hushed tones, in a gravelly voice that reminded Dean of ocean waves washing over seashells. At first, he wondered if the man was considerate enough to speak softly to avoid disturbing him, until Dean overheard the conversation he was having.

"Please, Gabriel. Do not send any more male prostitutes to my hospital room!" Dean's eyebrows shot up. Male prostitutes? So the guy batted for the other team, then.

And on the heels of that thought: _there were prostitutes here and I missed it?_

The man did not seem half as pleased as Dean did, his blue eyes constantly roaming to the door in case anyone walked in.

"I'm not even healthy enough for sex, not to mention how unsanitary it is to have them here, whipping their clothes off and touching people. Who knows where their hands have been? Besides, I have a roommate! No, Gabriel, I don't know if he enjoys..." Another secretive glance to the door. "... _kielbasa_ and I'm not going to ask him since he's unconscious-"

At that precise moment, the man glanced over to Dean's bed and froze, his eyes locking with Dean's weary green ones. Dean offered a smile and a thumbs-up, which only served to make the poor guy even more flustered, his cheeks now colored pink.

"Uh, Gabriel? I'll have to call you back. Yes, my roommate is awake. No, I will not ask if he minds the prostitutes!"

In a wild flurry, the man slammed the phone back into its cradle and cursed under his breath. Dean's ears must not have been working right because he swore he heard him say "assbutt" like it was some kind of insult. Or maybe he wasn't the only one who took a hit on the head.

When the man finally looked over at Dean again, his eyes were soft in apology. Pure blue, just like the ocean.

"I apologize for whatever you heard." Dean rested his cheek against the pillow and shrugged. Even that small movement sent tendrils of fresh agony straight to his brain and he winced.

"I don't," he rasped. The man tilted his head. "Mind the prostitutes, I mean." This seemed to surprise the man as he was struck speechless, staring at Dean with growing curiosity. "I'm Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester."

"Like the gun?" Dean nodded as much as his neck would allow. He never thought of his own name like that before, but he liked it. "Hello, Dean. My name is Castiel Novak."

Castiel.

It was an odd name, but it rolled smoothly over Dean's tongue. His thoughts took a dark turn and before he could stop it, he wondered what it would be like to cry out that name in ecstasy. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Castiel must have mistaken it for a dry throat, for he gestured to Dean's side table, bearing only a box of tissues, a cup of chocolate pudding, and a plastic cup filled with water.

"A drink of water might soothe your throat," Castiel suggested.

Dean swallowed again. It felt like his throat had been lined with sandpaper and even a drop of water was a dream come true. He reached out a hand, but the pain was much too searing to move more than an inch. Dean hissed and recoiled, cradling his arm to his chest while the tremors of pain ebbed in and out.

"Here, let me help you." Dean shook his head.

"It's okay. I'm fine. You stay there and take it easy." The last thing he wanted was to appear weak in front of anyone, including Castiel. All he needed was a moment of rest and he would grab that cup of water easy.

"I insist." Castiel, it seemed, was not one to heed direction of any kind. He climbed out of bed and took the cup of water in his own hand, far easier than Dean could.

Limping to Dean's bedside, one hand slipped under Dean's head and the other brought the cup to Dean's lips. Dean sipped, his chapped lips at once absorbing the refreshing moisture, the fire in his throat cooled. And even though he could only take small sips or else spew up water, he drank the entire cup. He rather liked having Castiel so close. It was comforting, and Castiel appeared only too happy to help.

As Dean sipped, several things occurred to him, being acutely aware of Castiel hovering by his side, his own personal guardian angel.

When Castiel put his mind to something, he gave it every ounce of his attention. His eyes never once strayed to the window or the small box television set in the corner of the ceiling that played old reruns of _Bewitched_ or to any obnoxiously addicting form of technology. Instead, his eyes fixed on Dean like there was nothing else in the world that mattered.

Castiel smelled clean, like sunshine and mint, even if the rest of the hospital reeked of medicine and sickness. Dean found himself inhaling deeply and hoped it wasn't too obvious.

The hand that held Dean's head felt warm and gentle, Castiel's thumb stroking his hair in soft circles. Dean liked that, too.

When Dean was done drinking, Castiel took the cup away and Dean was left to rest his head on the annoyingly stiff pillow again.

"Thanks, Castiel," he croaked nonetheless.

"You can call me Cas," he replied, sinking back into his own bed. "All my friends call me Cas. Or they would, if I had any."

Dean found this to be more shocking than anything else.

"You don't have friends? Come on, a nice guy like you?" Cas hung his head in light of the compliment, barely able to conceal his smile.

"I have acquaintances. I have colleagues...but I don't have a true companion, no. I guess you could say my... _people skills_ are _rusty."_ Cas hooked his fingers into dramatic air-quotes and Dean couldn't help but chuckle. So the guy needed someone to draw him out of his shell, break down his barriers. Dean liked a good challenge.

"So are we friends then?" He dared to ask.

"We could be."

Before Dean could figure out how to respond to that, there was an intrusive knock at the door. A nurse in blue scrubs stood there, observing Dean with a pair of dark eyes that made him feel completely naked under the hospital sheet.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," she purred, marching to the bed. She had a head of rich brown curls that bounced when she walked and sharp red nails that skated over Dean's skin while she checked his IV. Her pouty red lips twisted in a smirk as she observed him, as if she found something amusing but was reluctant to share the secret.

As she bent over him to check the machines, Dean caught sight of her name tag. Meg.

Already he could tell she must be hell on wheels outside these hospital walls, the way she could almost flay skin with a single look. Dean glanced over at Cas to see what he thought, but his roommate was pretending to be fascinated by _Bewitched,_ mimicking Samantha's famous nose twitch.

"Lookin' good," Meg sang, pulling back from the machines to look Dean over once more. "Well, your vitals anyway. Not so much for the rest of you."

Dean considered throwing the pudding cup at her, if he could only muster the energy. He might have tried it, if Cas wasn't sitting three feet away.

"You're in pretty rough shape. Can you tell me your name?" Meg demanded, one hand poised on her hip as she waited. Dean only hesitated for a heartbeat, the way people did when drilled for their personal information.

"Dean Winchester. Like the gun."

Behind Meg, Cas' lips flickered with a smile. Meg simply rolled her eyes. Maybe she thought he was trying to look good in front of her, but he didn't much care what she thought.

"And your birthday?"

"January 24th, 1979," he recited. It was the end of April now, only a few days prior to Sam's birthday. Dean only hoped he didn't miss it due to being stuck in the hospital.

"Uh-huh...and are you a virgin, Dean Winchester?"

"Wuh-what?" Dean nearly bolted up in bed, his face burning. Cas continued to watch the television, but his shoulders had tightened, his body a frozen statue in his hospital bed.

Meg tossed her head back and laughed.

"Relax. You don't need to answer that. Sometimes I like to screw with people. Keep them on their toes." Dean settled back against the pillow, his jaw clenched in annoyance. She was lucky he was in too much pain to grab that pudding.

"I'll give you another dose for the pain," Meg said and Dean was grateful for that much. As she turned to leave, she paused near Castiel's bed. Was she going to ask if he was a virgin, too? "And you. Don't cause too much trouble."

"No promises."

Meg winked back and then she was gone, off to torment some other poor soul chained to a hospital bed. Dean felt an uneasy gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach as he glanced over at Castiel. Maybe he was just hungry.

"So...is she a girlfriend of yours?" Dean stretched an arm out for the pudding cup. Castiel started to climb out of bed again, but Dean held up a finger, begging for patience. He refused to be spoon-fed his pudding.

Gritting his teeth, Dean stretched until he could barely stand the searing in his bones, and just when he was ready to give up, his fingers curled around the pudding cup. He ripped the cover off and plunged a spoonful into his mouth. It was ordinary chocolate pudding from the hospital cafeteria, but it somehow tasted sweeter, knowing he had reached by it by himself.

Cas clapped for his minor victory.

"To answer your question, no, she's not my girlfriend." Dean almost sighed in relief, but his mouth was too full. "We went out for pizza one night, but we never got around to moving any furniture, if you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," Dean responded. With his mouth so full with pudding, it came out as little more than wet garble. Dean swallowed. "Maybe the one for you is still out there somewhere."

"Maybe..." Cas whispered. There was something in the way Cas was looking at Dean...or maybe Dean's imagination was running wild. No way could someone like Cas be interested in someone like him.

"And the guy on the phone?" Dean heard himself say, desperate for something else to distract his mind now that his plastic spoon scraped the bottom of the cup.

"That was Gabriel, my brother," Castiel sighed. From the sound of it, this Gabriel was more trouble than he was worth. "He has a strange sense of humor. Most people send flowers, he sends prostitutes."

Dean laughed.

"Sounds like something I might do for my brother on his birthday. Except he'd spend the entire night trying to convince the poor girl to go back to school."

"Your brother sounds like an honorable man," Castiel offered.

"Yeah, he's a good kid. Much smarter than I could ever hope to be."

A feeling of pride warmed Dean's heart as he thought of his little brother. After their mother perished in an unfortunate house fire when he was only four, their father had buried himself in drink and job, leaving Dean to take care of Sam almost single-handedly. He would do just about anything for Sam.

"So what are you in for?" Dean asked, jerking his chin toward Castiel's bed. Cas grew shy again; Dean could tell by the way he lowered his gaze to his hands, wringing the sheet.

"You'll laugh."

"No, I won't. I promise." Dean even held up his hand, as though prepared to swear it on the Bible. After a few heartbeats passed, Cas shifted in his bed, inching closer to Dean despite the gap between them.

"I...fell out of a tree." It took immense effort to keep his face rigid. Sam always said Dean was the kind of person that could be amused by something as childish as those silly cat videos he often emailed to his brother, let alone the idea of someone falling out of a tree.

"Okay. Why were you in the tree?"

"I was trying to rescue my neighbor's cat. It was stuck in the tree and there was no one else around to help. So I climbed up there, only to realize at the top that I was afraid of heights. I fell and hurt my back." Dean snickered. "You promised!"

Full-blown laughter erupted from Dean's chest. Cas was sort of cute when he was annoyed, a bit like that grumpy cat on the Internet.

"Rescuing a cat? You've gotta be kidding me." Cas crossed his arms and turned his face away from Dean. "Okay, I'm sorry. What happened to the cat?"

"It got scared when I fell out of the tree, so it jumped down and the little girl caught it." Perhaps it was a bit insensitive, but Dean wished the girl had caught the scene on video and posted it somewhere on the Internet so he could see. He didn't dare tell this to Cas, in case Cas was the kind of person who held a grudge. Silence in this place would drive him crazy.

"At least you tried." Dean's stomach grumbled. Apparently the pudding hadn't been enough to satisfy his hunger. Cas must have heard it, for he smiled and pressed the call button.

"Should I request three pudding cups this time? One for me, two for you?"

Dean licked his lips. He thought they would be good friends, indeed.

…

The next morning, Sam stopped by to visit Dean. He had to duck his head to step into the room, his figure being an abnormally tall one. Sometimes Dean heard the name Moose being tossed around when the subject of his brother came up. If Sam heard it, he never seemed to care. If anything, he teased Dean relentlessly about their obvious height difference.

"Dean," Sam greeted in relief and bent down to hug Dean like they hadn't seen each other in years.

Dean patted his brother on the back, knowing that this show of affection was purely a result of Sam's remorse. When he pulled back, Sam shoved his hands into his pockets and lingered at the foot of his bed, unsure of what to do with himself.

"Glad to see you're okay. I'm so sorry about the car and your leg." He pointed to Dean's cast, not willing to touch it. Luckily, Sam had escaped the accident with minor lacerations on his forehead and the occasional stiffness in his stride.

"Relax, Sammy. It's not like you crashed my Baby on purpose. Shit happens."

For some reason, their luck often proved to be worse than for other people on this planet. Their mother died in the fire, they severed all connection to their father, the girl Sam was about to marry had been murdered the year before, and their lifestyle had never been a luxurious, or even sometimes comfortable, one. Still, Sam looked like he was ready to take all the blame for it. It was one of his brother's greatest flaws, to carry the entire world on his shoulders.

"I know, but the truck just came out of nowhere...when that guy ran the red light and smashed into the car...and now you're stuck here in the hospital...I'm sorry. You were unconscious for two days. I only left yesterday to grab a change of clothes and sleep."

 _Two days?_ Sam's words echoed in his head. _I was out for two whole days?_

"What happened to the car?" Dean was afraid to hear the answer. That car had been in their family for as long as he could remember; even his father and mother drove around in it while they were still dating. If it was gone, Dean wouldn't know what to do.

"They wanted to take it away, because it was wrecked." A squeak slipped out from Dean's throat. In the next bed, Castiel glanced up from a book, his blue eyes wide with concern. Sam had his back to Castiel and never noticed. "It's okay. I refused to let them do it. I told them my brother was a genius when it comes to cars and that he'd fix it up if it killed him."

Dean breathed easily again. Suddenly he was reminded of how much he appreciated his brother.

"Ah, so you're a mechanic," Castiel murmured from his side of the room, as though he had just figured out a crucial piece of a puzzle. All at once, Sam realized he was there and glanced from Dean to Cas with dawning interest. "That was my second guess."

"What was your first guess?" Dean wondered.

"Rock star. You were humming Renegade by Styx yesterday and using your pudding cups as drums." Dean grinned at the memory.

"Sounds like my brother," Sam mused, shaking his head at Dean. "Ever since we were kids, Dean either wanted to play in a band or fix up cars. I swear, he has this special touch."

Castiel hung on every word, his eyes growing brighter for Dean with every piece of new information.

"I've fixed up my Baby more times than I can count," Dean boasted. "Not that I can't count very high-"

"I think he gets it, Dean," Sam intervened. "So are you going to introduce us or am I supposed to guess what his name is?"

"Hah! You'll never guess!" Dean shot back. Sam raised his eyebrows. Never one to back down from a challenge, especially one from his brother, Sam got that determined look in his eye and observed Cas for a long moment, searching for a name.

"Hmm...is it...Jimmy?" Cas shook his head while Dean made an annoying buzzing sound, the kind that came from a game show.

"Nope, not even close. Sam, this is Castiel. Castiel, this is my brother, Sam."

Forever polite, Sam stepped forward to shake Cas' hand. Cas stared at Sam's hand and then accepted it, giving it one brief shake. Dean had heard of people who were socially awkward, but Cas took it to a new level.

"A pleasure to meet you," Cas said, bowing his head.

"Castiel...I'm pretty sure there's an angel with that name. Not something you hear every day."

"You'll have to excuse Sam. He's a bit of a bookworm," Dean teased. Everywhere they went, Sam dropped some little tidbit or historical fact in his lap. Some people might have thought he was showing off, but Dean knew better. Even as a young boy, if Sam learned something new, he longed to share it with the rest of the world simply because he assumed the rest of the world would cherish it as much as he did.

But oh, it was so much fun to tease him for it.

"There is nothing wrong with having a passion for books, Dean!" His brother huffed, flipping his long hair out of his eyes.

"Agreed," Castiel chimed in.

All at once, Dean's mood soured. Seeing Cas and Sam bond over something they both had in common, actually starting a conversation about favorite books they had read, made an uncomfortable feeling take root in the pit of his stomach. Was he somehow jealous of his brother for earning Cas' attention and respect, even for a moment? That was crazy.

Wasn't it?

"You know what? I'm feeling kind of hungry. I think I'm going to run down to the cafeteria," Sam said, heading for the door. It gave Dean almost no pain at all to grab the pudding cup this time.

"Pudding?" Sam scrunched his nose.

"No thanks, Dean. I want something a little healthier than that."

"He's a health nut, too," Dean informed Cas. "It's hospital food, Sam. What do you expect?" But Sam was already out of earshot, his long legs carrying him out of the room in search of rabbit food.

Little did Dean know that Sam paused outside the hospital room, listening to Dean and Cas' voices pass back and forth in friendly conversation.

Dean had that look again. Sam had seen it time and again, long before Dean even built up the courage to confess to his occasional taste in men. Despite the tough guy image he tried to uphold, Dean's heart would leap into his eyes, glowing green as fresh spring leaves. His smile would stretch from ear to ear, too often a rare sight to behold. He would laugh easier and love with every ounce of his being, even if it only led to heartache in the end.

Dean probably didn't even realize he was falling yet.

 _Good luck,_ Sam wished silently and went to look for the cafeteria. If anyone deserved love in his life, it was his brother.

"So what do you do for a living?" Dean asked Cas, completely oblivious to his brother's lingering presence outside their room. An airplane could fall out of the sky and Dean wouldn't have noticed, too wrapped up in something-or someone-else. "Besides rescuing the neighborhood pets, I mean."

"Ironically, I am a doctor. In this hospital." Dean whistled. No wonder Cas had been able to summon pudding cups with the snap of his fingers. He practically had celebrity status. "All my life, I've wanted to help people. This is how I choose to do it."

"Ooh...Dr. Cas. I like it." Dean grinned, unable to stop the wicked ideas fleeting through his mind. Cas blushed. "Hey, if you work here, how come you don't get your own private room and better food?"

"They offered a private room, but I declined. Other people need those beds more than I do, so I told them to stick me wherever they could. So here I am."

Cas gestured around their small hospital room, which didn't offer much to look at besides each other.

"With little ole me as your roommate."

"Your company is not a nuisance by any means." It was strange hearing Castiel speak sometimes. He was what Sam would call an "old soul," with tired eyes that had seen much of this world and a manner of speech that preceded this generation.

"In other words, you like it." Cas sighed.

"Yes, Dean...I like it." Then he tilted his head, a new peculiar thought striking him. "I never stopped to question your preferences. Do you like having me as your roommate? If it bothers you, I can request to be moved-"

"No," Dean cried out. Not too quickly, he hoped. Cas' close proximity did bother him, but not in the way Cas thought. "I mean, it's okay if you stay here. With me."

Cas relaxed in his bed. Had he been afraid that Dean would tell him to leave? The notion made it hard for Dean to breathe.

"Very well. I'll stay. At least until tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"When I get discharged from the hospital."

In that instant, Dean could have sworn his heart flatlined.

…

Tomorrow came too fast for Dean's liking.

The morning sun filtered in through the window, barely stirring Dean from sleep, only for Dean to bolt upright in bed when he realized that Cas' bed was empty. The nurses must have come in and removed Cas' IV while Dean was asleep. The sheets had been stripped, left in a puddle on the floor and replaced with brand new ones for the next patient to come through that door. There was only one cup of water left on the table, within reach of Dean's bed, everything else already swept into the trash.

No note, no Cas, nothing but the heavy silence clogging his room.

 _Gone,_ he thought and felt fresh pain shoot through his chest. He fought to keep his feelings at bay, as he always did when the going got tough. _What am I thinking? I barely knew the guy, anyway._

Dean jumped when a sharp click pierced the silence. The bathroom door opened and out stepped Cas, fully dressed in a navy blue suit and a tan trench coat. _Who even wears a trench coat like that anymore?_ Dean had the urge to make a joke, but shoved it to the back of his mind. In any case, Cas wore it well.

"Don't worry. I wasn't going to leave without saying goodbye," Cas assured him. Approaching Dean's bedside, he held out his hand and Dean took it. Cas' touch was still warm and when it came time to let go, Dean found he was reluctant to do so, squeezing Cas' hand longer than necessary. "What are you planning to do when you get out of the hospital?"

"Get some pie," Dean groaned. The pudding did the job, but it was nowhere near as appetizing as having a whole pie to himself. Chased down with a cold bottle of beer.

"I might find a liquor store and drink it," Cas echoed Dean's thoughts.

"I'll join you." Dean bit down on his lip, mentally kicking himself for the invitation. One step closer and he might as well ask Cas out here and now.

The funny thing was, Cas seemed to consider it, hanging back for a second to admire Dean.

"No one has signed your cast yet. May I?"

Cas dug a Sharpie out of his pocket and uncapped it. Dean nodded. It didn't take him long to sign his name in graceful penmanship, but Dean discovered that Cas wrote something else as well. His phone number. Right there on Dean's cast, clear as day for all to see.

"In case you ever want to talk...sometime." Cas offered him one last smile and left Dean to the silence, except this time it wasn't nearly as torturous. He was much too baffled by what had passed between them.

 _Did that really just happen?_ He even pinched himself to make sure he was awake. _He just gave me his phone number..._ Dean leaned over to inspect his cast and trace the letters of Cas' name. Then he thrust his fist into the air _Breakfast Club-_ style.

…

His happiness was short-lived as other troubling emotions crept in.

Boredom. Now that Cas was gone, there was nothing to occupy Dean's time except choking down the terrible hospital food and watching _Bewitched_ reruns, the sound on the television barely loud enough for him to hear.

Fear. What if he got a new roommate, one that was truly obnoxious and unwelcome? Someone who moaned during all hours of the day or spoke a completely different language or ignored Dean completely, forcing him to cope with the awkward silence of a complete stranger?

No extra pudding cups for him, that was for sure.

Doubt. Dean traced the numbers on his cast, wondering if he should take a chance and call Cas. Did Cas even expect him to call this soon? Or at all? Or, more likely, was he just being nice? Maybe it was easier to go on with their lives instead of making something out of nothing. That way, no one would get hurt, least of all him.

Depression. In the back of his mind, Dean admitted that he missed having Cas around. More than anything, he wanted to talk to Cas again, but he couldn't find the courage to pick up the phone. Instead he slept and glared at the television and slept some more. What he really needed was a drink.

Sam came to visit again with the news that he could be discharged as early as the following morning. Bed rest and painkillers for the next couple of weeks. It did little to lift his spirits, though, as he gave Sam a weak shrug. All he wanted was to be free of that stinky, white room as soon as possible, to go back to normal life, fix up his Baby, and pretend like nothing ever happened.

For his effort, Sam tried to remain positive.

"You managed to get Cas' number, I see." Dean's only answer was a grunt. "So when are you going to call him?" Dean closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of his cast and Sam's cheerful smile.

"I don't know, Sam." All of his doubts bubbled to the surface and flowed past his lips before he could stop it. "What if he doesn't even expect me to call? What if I sound like some pathetic teenage girl?"

"If he didn't want you to call, he wouldn't have given you his number."

"Easy for you to say. You were almost married once." The minute the words were out, he regretted it. He opened is eyes to see that Sam's smile was gone, his eyes shifting to the window. "I'm sorry, Sam. I shouldn't have said that. I've been grumpy lately."

"I noticed." Nevertheless, Sam's face softened. "You know, Dean, you shouldn't let good opportunities slip away from you...or you'll only ever think about what could have been."

"I'll make sure to stitch that on a pillow when I get home." There he was, acting grumpy again. Dean didn't mean to take it out on Sam, but he could only bottle his emotions for so long. At one point, he caught Sam staring at Cas' bed, his knitted brows a sign that he was deep in thought. "What?" Dean asked, nudging Sam with his good leg.

Sam returned from his reverie, shaking his head.

"Oh, nothing. I was just wondering when they were going to give you a new roommate." _Never,_ Dean prayed. Come tomorrow, it didn't matter, anyway.

…

At last came the day Dean was discharged from the hospital. The tubes were plucked from his veins, a prescription note pushed into his hand, and a wheelchair waited for him in the hall. Dean insisted that he could walk out of the hospital on his own two legs and even jumped at the chance to prove it. He barely made it ten steps before he lost his breath and collapsed against Cas' hospital bed.

Sam was there to wheel him out, long hair still damp and curling from a recent shower while Dean smelled every bit like he had been dipped in antiseptic fluid.

"A little more _Driving Miss Daisy,_ a little less _Fast and Furious,"_ he flung over his shoulder as Sam steered him down the hallway and toward freedom. The wheelchair slowed to a crawl.

"Sorry," Sam apologized for the umpteenth time. "I just thought you'd want to be out of here as soon as possible." Now Dean felt like he had kicked a puppy.

"Yeah, I know." As they passed the nurse's station, Dean spotted a familiar face and he tapped the side of the wheelchair, signaling for Sam to stop. "Excuse me, miss? Can I have a pudding cup to go?"

Above him, Sam rolled his eyes.

Meg looked up from her clipboard, red lips pursed, none too pleased to see Dean Winchester there.

"The pudding cups are for patients only." Dean snorted, seeing through her lie and sensing she only wanted him out of her hair.

"Well, technically I'm still a patient until I walk through those doors, right? Chop-chop!"

Dean held out his hand like a kid waiting for Halloween candy. Meg hesitated a moment longer before she ventured to the pantry across the hall and returned with a vanilla pudding cup.

"We're out of chocolate, no thanks to you," she said, tossing the cup into his waiting hands. Dean wasn't a picky eater, all too happy to dig into the pudding.

"Tell me, are you always this charming outside of the hospital?" Dean asked between bites. Meg clicked her nails on the counter, each sharp pinpoint driving into Dean's skull.

"Oh, believe me, I know how to have a good time...but you're not my type."

"That's okay." Dean shrugged it off. "You're not my type, either." He tapped the side of the wheelchair again to get Sam moving and left Meg to wonder after him.

The morning sunshine blinded him as they stepped out of the hospital. Maybe that was why he didn't immediately see the surprise that was waiting for him. Even if he did, Dean was too stunned to form words.

Cas.

He was there, trench coat and all, leaning against the wall and looking like he was waiting for a date to show up. Sam had set this up, he was sure of it. One glance up confirmed it as Sam smiled down at him.

When Cas spotted them, he straightened up and met them halfway.

"So, about that liquor store..." Cas hinted.

Dean smiled.

"Count me in."


	62. Carnivore

A/N: Since it's Jensen's birthday today (happy 40th birthday, Jensen!) I decided to do a little one-shot for Dean. Enjoy!

Carnivore

Dean's stomach rumbled for the third time in as many minutes. There was nothing worse than slowly starving to death while waiting for food.

He couldn't help but gaze around at the other patrons poking at their plates. Juicy hamburgers, crispy fries dipped in pools of ketchup, baskets of chicken wings that he could almost sink his teeth into...and these people practically wasted half of it, leaving chunks of uneaten food on their plates. Even if he was stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, he would devour every last morsel of food in sight.

Even though it wasn't her fault, he found himself glaring at the waitress, willing her to bring out his food.

 _"The mighty lion grows hungry and so begins the hunt for his next meal."_

At last, just as Dean started to drool over the dessert menu, the waitress delivered their plates of food. One bacon cheeseburger, extra cheese, extra bacon, with a side of curly fries. Tendrils of steam swirled under Dean's nose as he sniffed deeply. It smelled like heaven. His version of it, anyway.

 _"There! The lion has spotted his prey..."_

Licking his lips, Dean lifted the burger into his hands.

 _"...he pounces on the poor, unsuspecting creature..."_

Dean opened his mouth wide, ready to inhale the burger like it would be his last, the same way he always did. After all, the hunting business was a dangerous one; there was no telling which meal would be his last.

 _"...and he sinks his powerful jaws into its meaty flesh-"_

"Dude," Dean snapped, lowering the burger. "How many times have I told you not to go Discovery Channel on me when I'm eating?"

Sam chuckled around his mouthful of salad.

"You're the carnivore, not me." Dean examined his burger again, assessing his appetite. After a moment, he shrugged and took a giant bite anyway. No point in wasting good food.


	63. Locked Out

Locked Out

"It's been a while since we've done this," Sam said, taking a sip of his beer. Beside him, Dean leaned back against the windshield of the Impala and tilted his chin up to the starry skies above.

"Too long," Dean agreed, his green eyes darting from one twinkling star to another.

Sometimes they liked to stop in the middle of nowhere, just two brothers with a couple of beers, and gaze up at the stars. They never felt the need to talk about anything during those quiet nights. Instead they simply enjoyed each other's company and the illusion of a peaceful world before returning to reality. With everything that had happened lately-God skipping town once more and nominating them as the protectors of earth, Jack's fateful birth, and searching for their lost mother in some alternate dimension-they hadn't exactly had time to stop and smell the roses.

Oh, how they missed this. Even if it was only in their backyard and not some deserted stretch of highway.

"Hey, look! A falling angel!" Dean pointed up as a shooting star raced across the night sky.

"Seriously, Dean?"

"What? Don't tell me you don't think it every time you see a shooting star." Sam shrugged, but he did not deny it. Even though he had been swimming in and out of consciousness at the time, clinging to life, part of him would always remember the night that all of the angels in Heaven had fallen, thanks to Metatron locking them out of their home. To the rest of the world, it looked like a freak meteor shower, nothing more.

Dean was right. Every time he glimpsed a shooting star, he found himself wondering if it was one more angel falling from grace.

"There aren't that many angels left to fall," he murmured.

"Kind of sad," Dean admitted, "until you remember how many of them were dicks in the first place."

Sam remembered all too well. Angels weren't exactly the golden protectors of humanity he had believed them to be as a boy. Some of them, like Zachariah, Metatron, and Michael were cruel and manipulative by nature, using any means necessary to achieve their ends, even sacrificing most of humanity. And Lucifer was said to be the bad apple.

Not that he would ever sympathize with the Devil. Not in a million years in Hell.

The only exception had been Castiel, who longed to guide and help humanity with every fiber of his being. Over the years, he had proven to be a trustworthy friend and helped them more times than Sam could count. And yet Sam sensed that Cas often thought too little of himself, fearing that he would never be a "good" angel because of some of the mistakes he had made along the way.

Maybe he would write Cas a kind letter and tell him just how important he was to them. Or perhaps he would give him a nice card to lift his spirits. Too bad Hallmark didn't carry cards for angels. Not the literal kind, anyway.

"Earth to Sam!" Dean's voice pulled him back from his silent reverie. He blinked and saw Dean's hand waving in front of his face. "Got any more beer over there?"

Sam reached down for the cooler next to the car's tire, but the only drinks left were the smoothies Sam had whipped up for himself. He knew better than to offer one of those to Dean, who would probably rather drink his own urine before trying one of Sam's "froofy" drinks.

"Uh...nope. Looks like you took the last one." Dean slurped down the last few drops of his beer and aimed for the cooler. The can bounced off the rim and skittered across the ground, leaving Sam to be the one to pick it up.

"Well, then I guess it's time to head back inside," Dean declared, stretching his arms above his head.

The boys slid off the hood of the Impala. Dean paused to pat the car affectionately one last time before heading inside for the night. Sam was the first to reach the door, but when he turned the handle, it wouldn't budge. No key in his pocket, either.

The first tendrils of panic slithered down his neck.

"Do you have the key?" he asked over his shoulder, all the praying for his brother to fish it out of his pocket. There was a sharp moment of silence as Dean hesitated.

"I thought you kept it. And since when do we lock the doors at all when we go out?"

"I always lock the doors, Dean! You never know who or what could show up on our doorstep."

Sam shoved the door with his shoulder, but it proved no more useful than trying to move a solid brick wall. The bunker had served the Men of Letters well and they had taken necessary precautions to keep it safe. Nothing short of an explosive would knock the door down.

"Wait a minute. You're telling me you locked the door without bothering to check if you even had the key?" Dean clapped Sam on the back. "Way to go, Sherlock."

"It's a force of habit! Excuse me for being cautious! I could have sworn I had the key..."

Sam patted his pockets, as though the missing key might appear out of thin air. Dean shoved his brother out of the way. He slammed his shoulder against the door, but it didn't so much as wiggle under his weight.

"I already tried that, Dean," Sam droned in his ear.

"Alright, move aside. Give me some space. I always wanted to try this." Dean shooed Sam back until he stood next to the car, a good distance away from the door. Then Dean lifted his foot and kicked the door with all the strength he could muster. Afterwards, Dean hissed in pain and gripped his leg.

"I think you actually dented it," Sam said.

"Really?" Dean bent closer to the door to examine it.

"No, not really. I seriously doubt the Men of Letters bunker could be broken into by two idiots kicking down the door." Sam slumped against the hood of the Impala, pondering the impassable door as he might a carefully constructed puzzle. "Isn't Cas still inside?"

Dean waved the thought aside.

"He's bonding with Jack tonight. The two of them are probably squeezing pillows to their chests and crying over Netflix. They won't be moving anytime soon."

Nonetheless, Dean took his phone from his pocket and dialed Cas' number. It buzzed three times before rolling over to voicemail.

Cas had changed his voicemail message to one that included Jack. That way, if Sam or Dean ever needed to reach Jack while they were out, they could do so through Cas' phone.

 _"Hello, this is Castiel and...say your name."_

 _"I don't understand. Why do you want me to say my name?"_

 _"It's...it's what people do when they don't want to answer their phones. People leave messages for you."_

 _"Oh. Okay. Jack."_

 _"Let's start over. Hello, this is Castiel-"_

Dean hung up the phone, feeling more bewildered than frustrated.

"Just as I thought. No such luck," he sighed.

"Onto Plan B, then." Sam hopped down from the car and made his way around to the trunk.

"You already have a Plan B?" Sam opened his mouth to answer, but Dean shook his head. "What am I saying? Of course you do. You're you." Sam wasn't sure whether to take that as a compliment, so he simply shrugged it off. Popping open the trunk, he lifted the hidden panel that concealed their stash of weapons.

"Oh, yeah. Now we're talking." Dean rubbed his palms together. It was only too bad they didn't keep the grenade launcher in the trunk anymore since Sam thought Dean was too tempted by it during their hunting trips.

Dean settled for a shotgun while Sam chose an iron crowbar.

"Say hello to my little friend," Dean shouted in his best Al Pacino impression (which in Sam's ears wasn't even close) and a powerful blast split the air. He had been aiming for the handle, hoping to shatter it and therefore grant them access to the bunker, but when they looked, they were disappointed to see that there wasn't so much as a scratch on the silver polish. Sam could have sworn he saw the bullet bounce off the handle.

"Bulletproof doors and windows," he surmised, shaking his head in dismay. "My turn."

With a grunt, Dean stepped aside and extended his arm toward the door as his brother stepped forward to attack it with the crowbar. No matter how it scraped the edges, Sam could never seem to wedge the crowbar anywhere that might allow him to pry open the door.

"Thing's practically welded shut!" Sam groaned through gritted teeth. After a moment of huffing and struggling, he tossed the crowbar on the ground at Dean's feet. Dean was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the entire scene with a cocked eyebrow.

"And none for Gretchen Weiners," he joked. Sam paused beside him to catch his breath and brush the long hair out of his face.

"Shut up, Dean! This isn't the time!"

Returning to the trunk, they tested every weapon they had in their arsenal, determined to gank that door just like any other threat they hunted. Pistols, rifles, machetes, even a thrown Molotov or two. The door withstood each of their attacks, much to their growing frustration.

"Well, at least we won't ever have to worry about burglars," Dean pointed out, sinking to the ground at the base of the door. Sam joined him, zipping his jacket up to his neck as the cool night air brushed his skin.

"We could always spend the night in the car," Sam suggested. Dean gave him a disapproving look.

"First of all, I refuse to sleep in a confined space with you after you decided to add both beans and asparagus to your dinner tonight. Second of all, those doors are locked too."

"So you lock your doors, but you criticize me for doing the same thing for the bunker?"

"I'm not about to leave my Baby outside without locking her up nice and tight." Sam began to question Dean's priorities, but he knew that car was one of his brother's prized possessions, something he most certainly would kill for. Still, even if the car was locked, anyone could come along, pick up a rock, and just...

Suddenly, Sam had an idea. It might be a crazy idea, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Dean saw the light click on behind Sam's eyes and decoded it in a second, his jaw clenching tight in anger.

"Don't even think about it! Beans or not, I would rather use you as a bed than smash one of my Baby's windows!"

"It's a window, Dean. It can be fixed."

"Yeah? Just wait until I break your nose! It's a nose, Sam. It can be fixed!"

"You're being dramatic! Besides, it's too cold now to stay outside like this, so unless you have any other suggestions...?" Sam wrapped his arms around his chest, shielding his body from the chill. Dean was quiet beside him, not usually a good sign. Surely there had to be something they hadn't tried yet, but no matter how hard Sam wracked his brain, he came up empty. "Maybe we should just try Cas again."

"I told you, he's got his angel ears turned off." Dean's head thunked against the door. Then he bolted upright and snapped his fingers. "Or does he?"

Dean closed his eyes. He stayed that way, stone still against the door, leaving Sam to stare at him blankly.

"What are you doing?" he finally asked. Dean's eyes shot open. A flicker of annoyance passed over his face due to the sudden interruption.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"It kind of looks like you're playing dead." Dean rolled his eyes. Been there, done that.

"I'm praying!" Sam offered his brother a skeptical look in return. Dean was never big on the power of prayer and only resorted to praying as a last resort, in the most dire of circumstances. "Fine. How's this? _Roses are red, violets are blue...Cas, get your ass out here or I will kill you."_

The boys held their breath and waited for several moments, but nothing happened. The door remained shut.

"A for effort," Sam sighed. Dean held up a finger.

"I may have one more trick up my sleeve." Once more, Dean closed his eyes, and Sam did not dare to break his concentration.

Just when the heavy silence was about to drive him crazy, the door behind them burst open, sending Sam and Dean flying. Castiel charged through it, his blue eyes burning with annoyance as they settled upon Sam and Dean.

Sam's mouth hung open, but Dean smiled and whooped in victory.

"Hey, it worked!" he cheered and jumped to his feet. Sam followed behind, tempted to ask the magician to explain his little trick. From the intensity of Cas' glare, it was a miracle that Dean didn't burst into flames on the spot.

"Yes, Dean. I got your message," Cas said, narrowing his eyes. "Funny how you always seem to annoy with Mambo No. 5 when you want something. Especially when you replace every female name with my own."

Sam's head swiveled around, shooting Dean a baffled look.

"You do?"

"No!" Dean's exclaimed, though his neck started to turn a telltale shade of red.

"Yes," Cas insisted. "Now if you two will excuse me, I was about to introduce Jack to the world of _Game of Thrones._ And this time my "angel ears" will be turned off." Dean mimicked Cas' air-quotes behind his back as the angel stalked back into the bunker.

Beside him, Sam couldn't help but snicker as he imagined how Dean's version of Mambo No. 5 might go. _A little bit of Cas in my life...a little bit of Cas by my side...a little bit of Cas is all I need..._

"No wonder you didn't want to sing it out loud," Sam said, still laughing. Dean looked ready to punch him, but marched into the warm bunker with his fists clenched.

"Shut up! It works every time!"


	64. Bullet

"Bullet"

If anyone ever told you that hunting was an easy job, they were either lying through their teeth or they weren't doing the job right. Not the kind of hunting that involved tracking and killing Bambi's mom, though that required some degree of skill in its own right. No, it was _their_ kind of hunting, where the game of choice was supernatural creatures instead of deer, creatures that most people only encountered in horror movies.

It was a dirty, risky, painful job, but someone had to do it.

The Winchesters had been involuntarily elected by their father to carry on the family business. They had been doing it far too long now to stop.

It was no life of luxury they led. Run-down motels were the closest they came to coming "home" at the end of the day. Seedy, stinky motels falling apart right in front of their eyes, complete with peeling yellow wallpaper, broken televisions fizzing with static, and toilets that only flushed if you figured out how to jiggle the handle just right. No mints on the pillow here.

Long nights behind the wheel, a seemingly never-ending road stretched out ahead of them, two brothers driving from place to place in pursuit of some of the deadliest creatures imaginable. The only faces they saw in those early hours were their own, more often than not scarred and painted with dried blood from their latest hunt. Sometimes there were worse injuries to tend to afterwards, like soldiers returning from a bloody war. Broken bones, black eyes, old wounds reopened and new scars left to heal.

Sometimes Dean was so tired that he could no longer distinguish that black winding road from the rest of the shadows pressing against their windows, his bones aching for sleep, and yet he would carry on...carry on...just a little farther now...

Except Sam was the one driving at the moment, while Dean's head lolled from a different kind of weakness than exhaustion. Sparks of pain bolted from his shoulder to his brain, burning like a crown of fire atop his head.

It was Sam who opened the door to their shabby motel room and carried Dean across the threshold. Dean, whose hand pressed against his aching shoulder, a silver bullet freshly lodged under his skin, his own blood warm and pulsing on his fingers.

It hadn't been the first time in his life he had been shot and he was willing to bet it wouldn't be the last. Then again, he had never been shot by his own brother before.

"Damn it, Sam...how could you not know it was me?" Dean moaned, teeth clenched through each wave of pain.

"For the last time, Dean, I'm sorry. This shapeshifter was convincing! He even knew your top 100 favorite albums of all time—in order! And then he just started...peeling his face off. Or... _your_ face off." Sam shuddered at the gruesome memory and the sudden shift in movement sent another jolt of pain spiraling through Dean's shoulder. "Okay, so I messed up. At least let me fix it."

Dean shooed his brother away and half-charged, half-fell toward one of the flimsy beds. Flopping down face-first, he buried his head in a pillow and moaned like a child throwing a tantrum.

"Never mind. Just leave me here to die. Again."

"Don't be so dramatic," Sam retorted, jerking Dean's leg. He knew better than to try to drag Dean to his feet. It was impossible to make Dean do anything he didn't want to do. "I'll help you dig the bullet out."

Before Sam could make another move in Dean's direction, Dean leaped off the bed like something bit him in the ass. Eyeing Sam warily, he used the bed to shield himself from his brother's reach.

"No way! You're not touching it!"

"Dean!" At least let me look at it!" Sam started around the bed, but Dean jumped across it in a desperate attempt to get away.

"No!"

"Why?"

"Because if I let you _look_ at it, then you're going to _touch_ it. Then it's going to hurt like hell!"

"Doesn't it already hurt like hell?" Sam countered. This gave Dean pause as he tried to lift up a chair to keep Sam at bay like a caged tiger, wincing in agony all the while. Doubt flickered in his green eyes. "Trust me, Dean. The sooner it's out, the better you'll feel."

With just a little more arguing, and a little more of ring-around-the-bed, Sam finally managed to convince Dean to stop long enough to wiggle his bad arm through the holes of his shirt, so he could examine the wound.

"There! You can see it!" Dean cried out, showing Sam his shoulder from across the room.

"It won't kill you to come a little closer!"

"Just like it didn't kill me to eat those funny-tasting tacos that one Tuesday, right?" Nevertheless, Dean took exactly one step forward. Every time Sam took one step closer, Dean took one step back, until he accidentally cornered himself next to the little round table by the window, allowing Sam to get his first real good look at Dean's wound.

He was no expert—he studied law, not medicine—but he figured it wasn't too different from a game of Operation. Or so he hoped. Search for the object that did not belong in that part of the body and carefully remove it without causing the patient too much pain.

Easier said than done.

"Man, this is like a twisted real life version of Operation," Dean muttered, echoing Sam's thoughts. They were closer than any normal pair of brothers Sam ever met, and so their thoughts often rode the same wavelength. Sinking to the edge of the table, Dean clenched his eyes shut, bracing himself for the pain that was sure to follow. "Fair warning: instead of buzzing and blinking my nose like Rudolph, I'm probably going to punch you in the face."

"Fair enough," Sam said, gently lifting Dean's arm closer to the light. He had enough experience by now to know that an angry Dean was a dangerous Dean.

The first thing Sam aimed to do was clean out the wound. They had no typical disinfectant on hand, so he went for the closest thing—a half-finished bottle of alcohol Dean had left behind on the table. The sight of it brought new fear to Dean's eyes and he nearly jumped out of his skin when Sam splashed the stale beer on his open wound.

" _Son_ of a _bitch_ ," Dean hissed. Tears actually sprang to his eyes, but he turned his head away so Sam would not see. "Why didn't you tell me it was going to hurt that much?"

"Would it really make it hurt less if I did?"

"No...but it would have been nice of you to consider it." Sam shook his head. Sometimes Dean acted like a child, but he supposed it stemmed from Dean's habit of repressing all childlike behavior back when they were still kids and Dean was forced to take on the role of the adult too soon. Sometimes it was like that child version of Dean was still in there somewhere, fighting to get out.

"Here...uh...name all the flavors of pie you can think of," Sam suggested.

"Why?"

"It'll serve as a distraction while I'm playing Operation on your arm."

"Good thinking," Dean nodded agreeably. Keeping his eyes closed, he conjured up delicious images of pie in his mind and his stomach grumbled. He swore he could almost taste those pies. Maybe he was actually dying and going to Heaven after all. "Let's see...there's cherry, apple, pumpkin..."

"Uh-huh..." Sam used the edge of his knife to pry open Dean's wound a little more.

"Pecan... _hsss..._ chocolate crème...coconut crème..."

"Keep going," Sam prodded, rotating the knife. At that point, lost in a tastier fantasy than the Operation game Sam was playing, Dean was only too happy to oblige.

"Banana crème... _hsss—Sam!_ Blueberry...did I already say apple?"

"You did," his brother assured him, taking a step back. Dean didn't notice, practically drooling over the thought of so much pie in the world.

"Lemon meringue...ginger..."

"Chicken pot pie," Sam added.

"Chicken pot pie," Dean repeated with a lick of his lips. Any sort of pie would do. "You know what, Sam? I plan to hunt down and taste every flavor of pie before I die. Again." Suddenly Dean emerged from his pie fantasy only to realize that Sam was no longer tending to his injured shoulder. Instead, he had moved across the room, his giant frame perched on the edge of the bed, watching Dean with growing amusement. "Why'd you stop?"

Sam shrugged.

"I got the bullet out." He opened his hand to reveal the silver bullet, coated in Dean's blood.

"So why didn't you say anything?" Dean demanded, staunching the blood with his shirt. The corners of Sam's lips twitched as he held back a laugh.

"Oh, I just wanted to see how much longer you could go on."

...


	65. Win the Battle

_A/N: Spoilers for the most recent episode of S13. Hard to believe the season finale is already here. This is going to be a two-part one-shot that I'm doing in anticipation of the season finale. Hope you all enjoy it._

 _Win the Battle..._

Home sweet home.

Through the golden rift they came, one by one, an anxious group of survivors from that other world with Sam and Dean close behind. Into their world, into their bunker. Once the rift had closed, they could relax and breathe and even dare to smile, the burden of war lifting from their tense shoulders as swiftly as that golden tear had disappeared.

Safe at last, where Michael could not reach them. Safe among friends and family, both old and new.

"I could use a drink. Anyone else?" Dean asked, marching toward the kitchen and the nearest store of liquor. Several hands rose in the air and some murmured in agreement. Others collapsed into chairs, the weight of their exhaustion and pain demanding to be felt.

"Mi casa es su casa," Sam addressed the crowd, spreading his arms wide in welcome. _My house is your house._

Slowly but surely, they behaved less like soldiers and more like friends. More like family. Coats and armor were shed, draped over the backs of chairs, exposing the real people underneath. Dean returned with an armful of alcohol and began to pour the drinks into plastic red cups. Most gulped it down like it was their first and last. For all they knew, it might as well be.

Mary ventured into the bathroom and returned with some of Sam and Dean's best medical supplies. She offered first aid to those with fresh battle wounds and made introductions, having spent more time in that other world than Sam and Dean would have liked. Sam gave a tour of the bunker to anyone who was interested, starting of course with the library and its vast collection of lore.

Even though he was an angel, those people were no longer wary of Castiel. After all, he had joined their fight alongside Sam and Dean, and it was his fallen brother Gabriel who had given his life to guarantee their escape from that war-torn world. For that, he earned a few words of condolences and playful remarks about his preference for trench coats.

They drank too much alcohol, they filled their bellies with good food, they mourned those who had been lost along the way, and even shared a few laughs. It had been a long time since Sam and Dean had enjoyed themselves the way they did that night.

"What was your world like, before the war with Michael?" Jack inquired. It was a question that had flitted through the minds of Sam and Dean time and again, but one they did not have the heart to ask. It was like someone had flipped a switch and the soldiers returned, heads bowed and the ghost of their memories haunting their eyes.

"I suppose it was no different than yours is now," Bobby said with a tired shrug. "Safe, bright, hopeful...and then one day the angels swooped down and blew it all to Hell."

"We never even stood a chance," Charlie admitted, "but that doesn't mean we were ready to go down without a fight. That's not how I want my story to end." It was too quiet. More than anything, Sam and Dean longed to bring back the good feeling that thrived only moments before.

"So, Charlie..." Sam called out, looking over the sea of heads to meet her eyes, framed by a cloud of red hair. "I'm curious. Our Charlie was something of a..."

"Nerd," Dean jumped in with a snicker. Sam gave him brother a scowl.

"Anyway, I was wondering if you could also quote _The Hobbit_ by heart?"

Charlie arched an eyebrow. Accepting the challenge, she rose to her feet and climbed onto her chair, all eyes trained on her like an audience eagerly awaiting a show. She cleared her throat- _he-hem-_ and recited:

" _In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole and that means-"_

"Alright, Madame Tolkien," Dean interrupted, much to Charlie's annoyance. "Charlie once kept me awake by reciting the entire first part. Once is good enough for me." Charlie stuck out her tongue, but gave a little bow before she settled back in her seat, a proud smile fixed on her lips.

It was eerie to see her there, a mirror image of the Charlie they once knew and loved. For one blessed moment, they could almost believe that their Charlie, who had succumbed to fatal wounds in a bathtub in some miserable motel, had been miraculously brought back to life.

And then there was Bobby.

Rugged military getup aside, he was the same man they had once come to respect as their second father. Grumpy on the outside, wise on the inside. A beer in one hand and a book of lore close to the other as he casually thumbed through the pages. All that was missing was the trucker hat.

"Take a look at this," Dean said, as he handed Bobby a framed photo. It was a picture of the three of them-him, Sam, and Bobby. It was also one of the only things they had to remember him by.

Bobby studied the picture for a long time without saying a word. Sam couldn't help but wonder if it was like looking into a funhouse mirror and seeing a version of yourself staring back that didn't entirely ring true.

"Guess some things never change," Bobby said at last, tapping the glass. "I had a hat just like that once. Lost it soon after the war had begun. Shot right off my head by some dick with wings. No offense."

"None taken," Cas sighed and adjusted his trench coat after Bobby elbowed him in the gut. After fighting alongside the Winchesters for so long, both of whom had no love for Heaven or its angels, he had heard all sorts of slurs aimed at those he once recognized as his brothers and sisters. Sometimes he even admitted that the insults were justified.

"I can't say I know your Bobby Singer, but I do know myself quite well." Bobby clapped both brothers on the shoulders and drew them close. "I have no doubt that your Bobby would be proud of you boys today."

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean said with a half-smile.

"You have no idea how much it means to hear it." Sam glanced over at his brother and noted the tired, mournful look in his eyes. Perhaps it would benefit Dean the most to hear it, to know that his best efforts were appreciated. Lately Dean had become desperate and moody, doing everything in his power to protect the ones he loved only to watch them ripped away at every turn.

Sam and Dean hovered at the edge of the crowd, sipping their beers and observing in wonder as everyone else's spirits were lifted. The bunker had never been so noisy or crowded, sanctuary to so many friendly faces.

"It's not over yet," Dean whispered, frowning into his beer bottle. Even the drink seemed to offer him little comfort tonight.

"I know that. So do they," Sam replied and gestured a hand toward the crowd. Michael was far from their minds now, a world away. "Now is the time to rest up and reconsider how we're going to beat Michael."

"Yeah, well you know what they say. Win the battle.."

"Lose the war?" Dean shrugged, but he refused to meet Sam's worried gaze. "We haven't lost yet. We will find a way to take down Michael. We have to...not just to protect this world, but to protect these people. Until then, we stay positive."

Dean grunted. It didn't sound at all promising to Sam's ears. He wished there was something more he could say or do to inspire Dean's confidence and preserve any sense of hope he had left.

And yet he knew Dean was right. This was the calm before the storm. Sooner or later, the war would be at their doorstep and these survivors were counting on them to lead the way.

Sam took another long sip of his beer and pushed those troubled thoughts to the back of his mind. They would bide their time, gather their strength again, and plan their next move. And then when the time came, they would hit Michael with everything they had or die trying.

...

 _And of course I do not own any part of The Hobbit as I am not Tolkien, but since Charlie loves it so much, I wanted to add it in here._


	66. Lose the War

_A/N: I don't know about you guys, but I can't believe the season finale is airing tonight. Season 13 has gone by so fast and it has been a good one. Here is part two of my one-shot. I once heard about some speculation regarding Dean and Michael and so I was inspired to write this. I'm not sure what will happen in this finale but I have no doubt it will be interesting._

 _...Lose the War_

It was over.

Mere hours before, they were celebrating a safe return to their world. Laughing instead of planning. Then that golden rift opened and out stepped Michael and Lucifer, followed by an army of angels at Michael's command.

Their happiness shriveled at once, replaced with familiar feelings of fear, panic, and retaliation.

"To Hell with you," Bobby growled and charged toward Michael. He didn't even make it two steps before one of Michael's angels laid a hand on his head and smote him, white light exploding from his eyes and mouth before his lifeless body hit the floor.

"No!" Dean screamed. _Not again._ Red hot fury burned through his veins and tears pricked his eyes. Wrestling the angel blade from Cas' fingers, he made a beeline for Michael, slicing and hacking through any angels that got in his way.

Michael had his back turned, watching as several angels combined their power to wipe out a chain of soldiers in the blink of an eye. Dean raised the angel blade, but Michael suddenly spun and sent him reeling to the floor. Dean got to his knees, but Michael was already there, gripping him by the neck until he could barely suck in a breath. The angel blade tumbled from his grasp.

"Watch," Michael hissed and forced Dean's head to the side. Dean did not want to look, but found he had no choice. Locked in Michael's death grip, he witnessed his allies fight and lose, falling down one by one like dominoes.

A dozen sharp explosions split the air as Mary and Sam fired off their weapons, loaded with angel-killing bullets courtesy of Bobby Singer.

"Dean!" Sam cried out. He tried to push his way through the crowd, but the fighting made it impossible as angels swooped around him left and right. As soon as he dusted each one, Sam aimed his gun at Michael.

Michael flicked his wrist. The guns whipped away from Sam and Mary's hands. Another flick of the wrist and they were flung aside just as quickly, blood welling up from fresh wounds.

A scream tore through Dean's throat along with several colorful names meant for Michael, but the slightest squeeze silenced him.

A glint of silver caught Dean's eye as Cas picked up his fallen angel blade. He stabbed Michael in the heart, the impact so powerful that Michael loosened his grip on Dean's throat for a moment, only to squeeze again as Dean squirmed. Black spots danced on the edge of his vision. _If he's going, he's not taking me with him,_ Dean thought and fought harder to break free. Michael might as well have been a stone statue, for Dean's efforts to escape proved futile.

Through the black haze, he saw Michael pull the angel blade from his chest and drive it into Cas' stomach. Dean heard the _thump_ of a body hitting the floor, but he could not bear to turn and see his oldest friend lying there beside him, hand reaching and blue eyes unseeing.

Even Jack...brave, powerful Jack...son of the Devil with a heart of gold...he put up one hell of a fight, golden eyes ablaze, until Michael unfolded his wings and brought him to his knees like all the rest. One touch on the shoulder from Lucifer and he was gone, whisked away to Chuck-knows-where.

As Dean looked around, he realized with a heavy heart that there were more angels than soldiers still standing, and the soldiers still standing began to give up hope as their loved ones fell all around them.

 _Win the battle...lose the war._

They had lost the war. They were all going to die by Michael's hands.

Unless...

No, it was too risky a gamble and Dean couldn't help but shudder at the consequences.

And yet they were all out of options and places to run.

"Take a look around," Michael sneered down at him. It wasn't enough for Michael to win the war; he wanted a witness to his destruction on the way to victory. "Take a look at your fallen comrades. Those you call brothers and sisters. Their lives are mine now, as is this new world. Did you honestly believe you could defeat me?"

Michael's taunts went unheard as Dean's thoughts raced. It might not even work at all, this plan that was rapidly unfolding in his head. Michael was from that other world, a world where Sam and Dean were never born. There was no guarantee that the rules of this world would bind him as they had for the other Michael.

But if by some miracle he could be restrained...Dean had to try.

If there was one thing Dean vowed never to do, it was to go down without a fight.

"Look, feather-brain, whatever Lucifer's paying you, I'll double it," Dean croaked. Michael shook his head.

"You are merely human. Lucifer has promised me something you can never match. In exchange for being reunited with his darling boy, he has promised me dominion over this world. He has promised me Heaven. I think it's time we start over with a clean slate, don't you?"

Dean felt new fear trickle down his neck. If Michael set foot in Heaven, the angels would welcome him with open arms. After all, their numbers had been diminishing, now on the verge of extinction. Taking his father's seat upstairs, Michael would be unstoppable.

 _Over my dead body..._

The way things were going, that promise would be fulfilled sooner rather than later.

"Oh, yeah? Well I've got something he can't offer you in a million years."

"And what's that?"

"A vessel."

Dean motioned his chin to the hand that gripped his throat. The skin was beginning to wither and crack, a sign that Michael's current vessel would not be able to contain him much longer. It seemed this world had some effect on him after all. Dean would like to believe that Michael would deteriorate and die with that vessel, but he knew Michael would find a new one eventually and the war would continue. A never-ending game of Musical Vessels.

"See, you're in my world now and in my world Michael only ever had one true vessel. A vessel that could contain all of his angel mojo."

Michael leaned down and bared his teeth. Even now, his lips looked in desperate need of chapstick, the skin blistering and peeling away.

"And where might I find this true vessel?"

"You're looking at him. Choking him, actually. Dean fucking Winchester." To his surprise, Michael loosened his grip to allow him to draw in a breath. From somewhere on his right, among the fallen, came a weak groan.

"Dean...no..." Sam whispered, clinging to life. Dean closed his eyes and wished that Sam didn't have to witness this. It was bad enough watching Sam be eclipsed by Lucifer all those years ago in a desperate attempt to stop the Apocalypse. _So this must be how Sam felt. My, how the tables have turned._

"It's okay, Sammy. I know what I'm doing."

It was the only way. Their last chance. Oh, but he really didn't want to be an angel condom.

"Let's make a deal," he spoke to Michael, giving him the hardest glare he could manage under the circumstances. "You spare everyone here...and you can have me as your vessel."

They had lost too much lately. Dean really needed a win, even if it meant having to play temporary host to an archangel.

"Dean, don't do this!" With every last ounce of his strength, Sam crawled across the blood-stained floor and over limp bodies, hopelessly trying to reach his brother. "We can find another way. We always do."

Dean admired his brother's relentless optimism, but deep down he sensed it was already too late.

"Not this time, Sammy." He looked Michael in the eye. If he was going out, it would be without fear. "Do we have a deal or not?"

Michael pondered for a moment and then snapped his fingers. Bodies rose with breath again and began to shift across the floor, limbs stretching toward the ceiling, like a dozen sleeping beauties awoken from their enchanted slumber.

"Your turn," Michael demanded.

There was only one thing left to do. Say the magic word. He only hoped Sam would have the strength to do what was necessary if he failed to restrain Michael.

"Yes."

The last thing he heard was Sam's scream echoing in his ears. The world grew brighter, blinding Dean until he swore his eyeballs had burned out of his head _Raiders-_ style. Kneeling in the center of that white light, he felt rather than saw a pair of soft wings wrap around him. Embracing him. Consuming him.

And then...

...the world was quiet at last.


End file.
